


deep in my bones, I can feel you (take me back to a time only we knew)

by gasmsinc



Series: roses (or the blackhawks mob universe no one ever asked for) [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Cats, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gasmsinc/pseuds/gasmsinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” says Patrick two weeks later. “When’s your birthday?”</p><p>And Jonny says, “Why is there a cat in your drawer?”</p><p>“She’s going to have kittens soon,” explains Patrick like that’s a perfectly just reason to make a makeshift nest in his desk drawer and put a cat in it. </p><p>or:</p><p>the mob au no one ever asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	deep in my bones, I can feel you (take me back to a time only we knew)

**Author's Note:**

> wow, okay. this fic kind of got out of hand. i just wanted a fic where jonny is a mob boss who is significantly older than kaner and is kaner's sugar daddy, but anyone who knows me knows that i can't just write something small.
> 
> the kaner i imagine for this fic looks like [this](http://kanerboo.tumblr.com/post/113872193093/patrick-kane-34-88-the-only-reason-i-made), which explains why no one describes him as a hideous, balding rat. 
> 
> there are characters in this fic who were once blackhawks, but were traded. i made them blackhawks again, only because i love them.
> 
> title of the fic comes from the chainsmokers's roses. if you haven't heard it yet, give it a listen over [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyASdjZE0R0).
> 
>  **edit on 28/3/2016** : [essouffle](http://essouffle.tumblr.com/) drew an amazing doodle as fanwork for this work, and can be found at the very end of the fic! i also included links to images of the cars, and jonny's penthouse floor plan in the end notes.
> 
>  **edit on 26/4/2016** : the wonderful turva_auto did a podfic, which you can find right here -- [[Podfic] deep in my bones, I can feel you (take me back to a time only we knew)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6665845).
> 
>  **edit on 18/7/2016** : i hated my grammar, and my many uses of the word 'and' to create run-on sentences, so i've fixed most of those.

“Uh, Mr. Toews?” comes Saader’s voice over the intercom. “I think, um. There’s been a—can you just come down here, please?”

Jonny stares at the intercom and then at the spreadsheet on the computer screen in front of him. It’s been a long ass day, seemingly longer than usual. Even though he has minions— _paid_ minions—to handle the shit that goes down in the warehouse, Saader sounds desperate. Jonny’s just tired enough to agree. “This better be important, Saad.”

“It’s very important, sir,” replies Saader before the line cuts off.

Jonny leaves his suit jacket on the back of his chair. He takes the elevator from his office down to the main floor, and then the secret, hidden stairwell that’s definitely not on any building plans down to the pit of the warehouse.

“Saader!” he calls when he notices that none of his minions— _employees_ he reminds himself sadly—are nowhere to be found. They’re supposed to be doing _things_. Jonny isn’t exactly sure _what_ things because he hasn’t worked in the bowels in years, but he knows that the minions are supposed to at least appear busy.

“Saader!” he calls again when there’s no answer from his favorite minion. Saader’s a manager or something along those lines. Jonny isn’t sure what he promoted the kid to; he just knows that he likes Saader and that he trusts the kid. Saader has a lot more responsibilities than just selling crack on a corner.

He gives it thirty seconds. “Saad!”

Someone curses from around a corner of shelves. Boller appears, paper napkin pressed to his nose and his crisp, white, shirt splattered with blood. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says nasally around the napkin. “No one told me that the kid fucking bites!”

Shawsy is hot on his heels. “You got punched in the face by a _kid_.”

“Oi,” says Jonny. “What are you two idiots doing?”

Shawsy frowns at him. “ _Who_ called _you_ down here?”

Shawsy should really have more respect for his boss, but Jonny has a soft spot for the kid—he has a _lot_ of soft spots these days—and lets it slide with just a glare. Shawsy clears his throat and says, “ _Who_ called _you_ down here, sir?”

“Saad,” replies Jonny, watching Boller tilt his head back as Shawsy hands him another napkin. “What the hell happened to you?”

“The kid _bit_ me,” says Boller.

“Bit him and _then_ punched him the face, sir,” clarifies Shawsy.

“What kid?”

“The kid that’s been sneaking in,” Boller says as he removes the stained napkin from his face. He sucks in a deep breath, slowly tilting his head forward. When no blood comes pouring out of his nose he throws the napkins into a nearby waste basket. “I hate kids.”

“Where the hell is Saad?”

“Back with the kid,” explains Boller.

Jonny sighs. He pushes his way past the two goons to head in the direction that they came. The shelves are stacked ceiling high with products, or at least boxes that give the appearance that the warehouse is full of stuff.

At the very end of a long line of shelves is Saader, two minions that Jonny wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd, and more importantly, a kid tied to a chair with a gag stuffed in his mouth. “What the fuck,” says Jonny.

“Mr. Toews,” says Saader, shoulders dropping in relief.

“Why is there a kid tied to a chair?”

The kid in question shoots daggers at Jonny. He’s not actually a _child_ , but a kid in the same way that Saader and Shawsy are. He’s jailbait, obviously, probably just turned eighteen, or on the cusp of it, if his messy blond curls, soft cheeks, and baby blues are anything to go by. He chomps down on the gag, baring his teeth like a wild animal.

Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s tied to the chair.

“We caught him sneaking in here, sir,” says unknown minion #1.

“Yes, but _why_ is he tied to the chair?”

“He kicked Harold in the face, sir,” says unknown minion #2.

Jonny looks at unknown minion #1, who shrugs. “Harold’s upstairs getting treated by Mrs. Sharp, sir.”

The kid snarls behind the gag.

“When Bollig tried to subdue him, sir, he bit him, and then punched him in the face,” explains Saader with a heavy sigh. “I thought it best to tie him down before he caused any more trouble.”

Jonny looks at the kid, who looks like he’s trying to melt his brain with just his eyes. Jonny’s impressed—that’s usually _his_ thing.

“What was he stealing?” he asks as he undoes his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. He steps towards the kid, noting, thankfully, that Saader and the minions managed to get his legs tied to the legs of the chair. There’s a pretty nasty bruise on the kid’s jaw, and his left eye is starting to swell; Jonny's goons aren’t as useless as they seem.

Unknown minion #2 speaks up. “Nothing sir,” he says. “Nothing yet, at least.”

The kid glares up at Jonny, blue eyes unwavering. “Do you know who I am?” asks Jonny. The kid garbles something behind the gag which sounds suspiciously like, _I don’t give a fuck who you are_.

“He hasn’t caused any trouble,” says Saader, giving the kid a soft look.

Unknown minion #2 glares. “Yes, but he _will_.”

“How did he even get in here?” asks Jonny, touching the kid’s jaw, tilting his head back and forth. The kid tries to keep his head straight, making more noise behind the gag, but he’s powerless tied to the chair like that.

“Attempting to steal from me isn’t a very smart idea,” sighs Jonny. He directs the statement at the kid, who pushes at the gag with his tongue so spit slides from his mouth and down onto Jonny’s hand. Jonny grunts in disgust, wiping his hand on the kid’s torn shirt.

“A very dumb idea indeed, sir,” agrees unknown minion #1.

Jonny looks at him, realizing why he never learnt unknown minion #1’s name—he’s damn annoying. The kid rolls his eyes.

“I was thinking, sir,” says Saader, drawing Jonny’s attention away from the kid. “He could probably be useful.”

“Useful?” repeats unknown minion #1, annoying Jonny further.

Saader rubs the back of his head shyly, shrugging. “He did manage to get past security and into the building.”

Jonny looks at the minions. They both try to look smaller than they really are. They’re _probably_ not at fault for this epic breech in security, but Jonny doesn’t have a soft spot for them.

“ _And_ ,” continues Saader. “He did kick Harold in the face and caused some pretty bad damage to Boller’s nose. He has to be pretty smart, yeah? To sneak in here?”

“But he got _caught_ ,” argues unknown minion #2.

Jonny looks back down at the kid. He's looking at Saader, expression curious, but relieved. The minions shuffle about nervously.

Jonny _should_ get rid of the kid in every sense of the word. It’s not good to have a loose end, especially not around the warehouse, but there’s something about the kid, the way he looks at Jonny—fearful but still defiant—that makes Jonny untie the gag from the back of the kid’s head.

The kid coughs, spitting what’s been gathering in his mouth ever since someone stuffed the gag into his mouth onto the floor. “What’s your name?” asks Jonny.

The kid sucks in a couple of deep breaths. “What’s your name?” repeats Jonny.

“Patrick,” the kid says, voice deeper than Jonny was expecting.

“Patrick what?”

“What does it matter?” bites Patrick.

Saader makes an unhappy face, obviously irritated that the kid is blowing his chance, but Jonny sighs. He crouches down to untie Patrick’s legs. “Because I asked.”

Patrick watches him. He breathes heavily as he licks his lips. They’re a pale pink, wet with saliva. “Patrick. Patrick Kane.”

“Patrick,” repeats Jonny, straightening up. He doesn’t move to untie Patrick’s arms from behind the chair. “I’m Jonathan Toews.” Patrick’s lips settle in to a thin line as he takes a shaky breath. “And you were going to steal from me.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t going to _steal_ anything,” admits Patrick with a shake of his head, voice quiet.

“Hm,” hums Jonny.

“Seriously,” insists Patrick. “I just wanted to look around. I don’t _steal_. My mom raised me better than that.” He looks right at Jonny, blue eyes wide, but he’s honest. That makes Jonny sigh and rub tiredly at the space between his eyes.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Patrick’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

“I’m _not_ going to kill you.”

“But aren’t you _supposed_ to?”

“Do you _want_ me to?”

“I—well, _no_ ,” says Patrick with a cock of his head. “But _why_ aren’t you?”

“Because fortunately for you,” sighs Jonny, “Saader’s convinced me that you might be useful.”

“I don’t want to work for the mob,” says Patrick.

“Well, you don’t really have a choice, now do you?” answers Jonny. He finally steps behind Patrick to untie his hands. “No funny business, eh?” he says, letting Patrick’s arms go.

Patrick sags in the chair before he brings his arms around front to rub at his wrists. They’re boney and delicate, pale. “You can’t just let me go?”

Saader huffs.

“ _No_ ,” drawls Jonny. “I can’t just let you go. Not only do you know _how_ to get into my _completely_ secure building—” he looks at the unknown minions angrily “—but you also know _where_ it is. And that’s a problem.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” promises Patrick.

“Yeah, that’s not going to work,” says Jonny.

Patrick continues to rub at his wrists. “Please?” he begs, lower lip wobbly, eyes soft, round with fake innocence. Jonny raises an eyebrow, amused at the kid’s dramatics, and his prettiness too, now that he has the kid pouting at him, but just because the kid’s got a pretty face doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have ulterior motives.

Patrick scowls when he realizes that his baby blues aren’t working. “You already said you weren’t going to kill me.”

Jonny nods, digging his hands into his pockets. He isn’t quite sure what to do with Patrick now that he’s made the promise not to kill him; he never goes back on his word. “What do you think, Saader?”

Saader looks at Patrick, giving him a soft smile. “Maybe we should tail him? Until he can prove that he’s trustworthy?”

“Trustworthy?” repeats Patrick.

Saader nods. “This place isn’t easy to find, you know. Or to get in to. You could be working for a rival.”

“ _Rival_?”

“Sometimes things go bad,” explains Saader.

Patrick blinks at him. “If this place is supposedly so hard to find and to get in to, don’t you think someone from the inside helped me? I’m not the one you should be tailing.”

“ _Did_ someone help you?” unknown minion #2 sneers.

“Of course, Mark,” says Patrick cheerily. “ _You_ did.”

Unknown minion #2—Mark—face goes ghostly white and then raging red within seconds. “You little shit!” he yells. “How dare you?! I would never—you’re accusing me of betraying my boss!” he rounds on Patrick, grabbing him by his shirt collar, dragging him from the chair. Mark is at least a foot taller than Patrick, but instead of looking frightened, or squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of a punch, Patrick just grins at Mark.

“Take that back!” yells Mark.

“I didn’t think it would be this easy to get you so riled up,” remarks Patrick.

Mark’s eyes get wide. He pulls his hand back to swing, but Jonny says, “Mark, calm down,” and Mark lets Patrick go. Patrick falls on his ass out of surprise.

“Boss,” says Mark, desperate. “I would never—”

“I know,” interrupts Jonny, looking down at Patrick, who has a shit-eating grin and looks completely unapologetic. “He was getting under your skin on purpose.”

“ _Little shit_ ,” growls Mark.

Jonny crouches down in front of Patrick where he’s still on his ass. “What am I going to do with you?”

Patrick shrugs. “Let me go?”

Jonny rolls his eyes at that. Saader looks amused as unknown minion #1 tries to calm Mark down. Jonny remembers, briefly, the spreadsheet he was examining before Saader called him down. He’ll still have to crunch numbers even when this whole thing is sorted out. If he just had a secretary or someone who would do that shit for him— “Are you any good with numbers?”

“What?” says Patrick.

“Numbers? Spreadsheets? You know how to work Excel?”

“Who _doesn’t_ know how to work Excel?”

Jonny shrugs. “Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Jonny nods to himself. “Saader,” he says, standing. “Get Patrick here all sorted out.”

“Sir?” asks Saader, brows creased.

“I think I just found a new secretary.”

“Sir,” says Mark. “Is that a good idea? What if he’s working for Getzlaf? He’ll be spilling secrets—”

“Thank you for your concern, Mark,” interrupts Jonny, as polite as can be. “But I’ve made my decision. You’ll report first thing to my office tomorrow morning.”

Patrick gapes, shaking his head. “I’m _not_ working for the mob!”

“You don’t have a choice,” repeats Jonny. “I already said that I’m not going to kill you, but I’m not letting you go, either. You’ll stay under my thumb until I decide what to do with you.”

“You can’t do that!” spits Patrick. “I’m not your property!”

“You are now,” says Jonny, matter-of-fact.

Patrick hurries to his feet. He glares at Jonny, hands balled into fists, but he’s not stupid enough to attempt a punch. “I have a life! And a job!”

“Saader, find out how much Patrick’s other job is and pay him double,” Jonny instructs. “I’m going back to my office. Get all his paperwork sorted out, tell him the rules, the dress code, all of that nonsense.”

“Fuck you!” yells Patrick.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Jonny, dismissively, turning on his heel. He leaves Patrick spitting obscenities to return to his desk and his dreaded spreadsheets.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

What arrives at Jonny’s office the next morning at nine sharp is so disgraceful that he wants to break his word and dump Patrick right into Lake Michigan. “What garbage can did you find that suit in?”

“Fuck you,” spits Patrick. “Fuck. You.”

Only Jonny’s enemies and people who have a death-wish curse at him like that. It’s a respect thing, really. It’s not that he would actually murder someone over a _fuck you_ —it’s his people who he’s slowly gained the respect and trust of who would murder over far less.

Point is, people just don’t talk to Jonny like that.

“It’s the only suit I own,” continues Patrick. “You gave me a _day_ you ass.”

The suit is all wrong. Firstly, it’s _gray_ and not the black-only issue that Jonny likes. It's loose in every place a suit can be loose, not to mention that Patrick’s pants are being held up by a God-awful brown belt. His dress shirt is black, which clashes with his brown shoes. Jonny should throw him into Lake Michigan just for even daring to wear something so ugly.

“First off,” says Jonny, chin resting on his fist as he examines Patrick from his desk. “Never curse at me like that again or I’ll cut out your tongue.” Patrick glares but miraculously keeps his mouth shut. “Second, you need to buy a new suit.”

Patrick sneers. “No.”

“No?” repeats Jonny, eyebrow raised.

“Not everyone has a shit ton of stolen, illegal money,” says Patrick.

“Not _all_ of it is stolen or illegal."

Patrick makes a face of disgust. “Whatever. What do you want me to do today?”

“I thought you didn’t want to work for the mob?”

Patrick glares at him. “I don’t have a choice,” he says in a voice that sounds suspiciously like he’s mocking Jonny, but Jonny knows that his dear Patrick would never. “People followed me home last night, stayed outside my house all night, and then followed me here this morning. I don’t have a fucking choice, so what is it that you want me to do?”

“Are you always this grumpy?” asks Jonny.

“You’re an _ass_ ," replies Patrick.

Jonny huffs his amusement. Usually he isn’t this amused by people like Patrick—people who have no respect for authority and who will be a thorn in his side, but there’s something about Patrick not groveling at his feet or calling him ‘sir’ that feels like a breath of fresh air. “Until I can trust you with spreadsheets—don’t give me that look. I don’t trust you with the information _on_ the spreadsheets—you’ll be acting as my secretary. That desk outside of my office is for you. All I need you to do is follow the calendar already programed into the computer. I’ve already blocked out the times I don’t take appointments, so just schedule them for the times I left open.”

“You have _appointments_?”

“I can’t throw Frank to the fishes if I’m pulling off Tommy’s toe nails, now can I?”

The look Patrick gives him is one of pure disgust and horror. Jonny huffs. “I don’t actually do any of those things.” Patrick looks slightly relieved. “I have people to do those things _for_ me.”

“Don’t make that face,” says Jonny as Patrick’s face remains horrified. “This _is_ the mob.”

“I don’t want anything to do with this.”

Jonny ignores him. “All I want you to do is sit up front and look pretty.”

Patrick mutters something under his breath—it sounds unsurprisingly like _fuck you_ —before he leaves Jonny’s office to take a seat at his desk. His office is a giant thing made of glass, right on a corner with views of the alley and street below. He watches Patrick through the glass as Patrick takes off his suit jacket—usually not allowed, but Jonny will let it go just to save himself from the eyesore—and gingerly starts up the computer. He left a few posted notes for Patrick because he can’t have him answering the phone inappropriately. He watches Patrick read them quickly before he balls them up and throws them in the wastebasket.

The phone rings. Patrick eyes it warily before he answers. Jonny doesn’t hear what he says, but he does see the way Patrick’s face scrunches in annoyance. He watches Patrick fumble his way through the calendar before he nods, grunts, and finally hangs up the phone. He catches Jonny watching him and sneers before he turns his back and pulls up YouTube.

“I’m not paying you to watch YouTube,” Jonny calls through his open door.

Patrick turns to glare at him. He should really have Patrick’s lack of respect for authority beaten out of him, but although Jonny finds him mildly irritating, there’s something almost charming about Patrick’s feistiness. He’s a cocky little shit that’s going to get himself killed, but he doesn’t treat Jonny like the sun shines out his ass, and that’s, well—it’s _nice_ to be treated like an asshole for once.

Patrick doesn’t close out of YouTube.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

At noon Sharpy stops dead in front of Patrick’s desk and makes sleazy faces at Jonny through the glass.

“Tazer, my boy,” he says after spending ten minutes shamelessly flirting with Patrick as Jonny tries to check his email. “You didn’t tell me you were getting a new secretary.”

“You’re married,” says Jonny.

Sharpy has the gall to look offended. “To-es, you pain me.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “What do you want, Sharpy?”

Sharpy pulls a chair out and falls onto it gracefully. “You catch the kid sneaking into the warehouse and you decide to give him a job?”

“Technically, Saader’s the one who caught him.”

Sharpy gives Jonny an unimpressed look. Jonny says, “I need to keep an eye on him.”

“Oh To-es,” sighs Sharpy. “He’s far too young for you.”

“Which means he’s far too young for _you_.”

“You ruin all my fun,” whines Sharpy.

Jonny rolls his eyes. He proceeds to ignore Sharpy until Sharpy grows bored and leaves him be, only to turn his attention back on Patrick. “He really is pretty, isn’t he?”

“What?” splutters Jonny.

“Your secretary,” clarifies Sharpy. “Pretty, isn’t he?”

Sharpy at least shut the door on the way in so Patrick is unaware of their conversation. Over the past three hours, Patrick’s mastered watching cat videos while answering the phone. Sometimes he hangs up right away. At other times he purses his lips into a pout and brings up the calendar, balancing the phone on a well-muscled shoulder as he tries to arrange an appointment. At other times, Patrick sits still, watching cats do only God knows what, a soft expression on his face. His eyes are easy, his nose delicate, lips a pretty pink.

Yes, Jonny agrees. Patrick _is_ pretty. But he also has all the making to be a major thorn in his side; that prettiness has also probably added to his cockiness.

“What does that have to do with anything?” says Jonny, defensive. When Sharpy smirks at him, he adds. “Go away, Sharpy.”

Sharpy’s smirk deepens. “Don’t you have work to do?” presses Jonny, irritated.

Sharpy sighs dramatically, hauling himself to his feet. “You’re always so grumpy,” he complains, stealing one of Jonny’s best pens out of the pen holder. On his way to his own office, Sharpy stops to smile delightfully at Patrick, who just gives Sharpy his own pretty smile back.

When Sharpy is clear down the hall on his way to his own office, Patrick appears in Jonny’s doorway. “So,” he says, leaning in the doorway. “What happened to your last secretary?”

“That’s none of your business,” says Jonny without looking up from a report, but he knows Patrick hasn’t moved and won’t move. He’s a persistent little pest already.

“Sharpy says he wasn’t as cute as me,” he remarks.

Jonny lifts his eyes from the report. Patrick is smiling, all cocky boy charm. “Did you decide not to kill me because you thought I was cute?”

“I decided not to kill you because you were being honest. Or at least as honest as you wanted to be.”

The cocky boy smile falters, just a little. “I decided not to kill you,” continues Jonny. “Because I was convinced that you weren’t in my warehouse to steal. But I’m not convinced that someone didn’t direct you there. I fired my last secretary yesterday night so that I could make you my secretary and keep you under my thumb.”

Patrick swallows, tilting his head. “For a mob boss, you’re pretty damn honest.”

“Just because I run a crime organization doesn’t mean I can’t be an honest person.” Jonny gives Patrick one last look, returning to his report. “You’re done for the day.”

“I’ve only worked three hours.”

“And you’ve managed to watch cat videos for two of them. Go home.”

“Is someone going to follow me?”

“Someone’s going to follow you for the rest of your life.”

Patrick snorts. “You promised—”

“I promised that _I_ wouldn’t kill you,” interrupts Jonny. “Doesn’t mean that someone else won’t.”

Jonny lifts his eyes to look at Patrick. The charming cockiness is all gone, replaced by a serious look that looks out of place on Patrick’s face. “I thought you were an honest man.”

Jonny cocks his head, putting down his pen. The report in front of him was written by Hoss. It details the murder of a loose end that Jonny wanted cut off. It was quick and easy and both he and Hoss will think nothing of it ever again.

“I _am_ an honest man,” he says. “I said _I_ wouldn’t kill you. I never said I wouldn’t get someone _else_ to. I was being honest. I don’t kill men; I have people to do that for me. You assumed because I said I wasn’t going to kill you to mean that there was a chance that you wouldn’t die.”

Patrick glares him, lips tight in a thin line. “Don’t look at me like that,” scolds Jonny. He takes the report and pushes it through the paper shredder. He doesn’t have any actual intention to kill Patrick. He is pretty, and gives Jonny something to look at. On top of that, he’s strangely amusing, but he doesn’t trust Patrick as far as he can throw him.

He intends to keep Patrick under his thumb, alive and kicking, until he finds out who gave him access to the warehouse. It was either by a member of their own organization or by someone else—Jonny doesn’t care. He’ll get to the bottom of the problem sooner or later, but he’s a bored boss with not much to do and Patrick’s the most fun he’s had in months. And anyway, like Saader said. Patrick _might_ be useful. He managed to injure some of Jonny’s men, and even though he did get caught, he was right about his looks. If Patrick had been an ugly, sniveling coward, Jonny would have had Mark or Saader get rid of him. But Patrick hadn’t been an ugly, sniveling coward. He had been a handsome, defiant, cocky little shit, and with a little bit of training from Sharpy, or even Hartman, Patrick could seduce any man, or woman man in Chicago.

Jonny intends to keep Patrick until he can mold him into a weapon. There would be no point in killing him. “Go home,” he instructs when Patrick still hasn’t left his doorway. “I’ll give you three days to find a new suit.”

Patrick stands there, hand balled into fists. His jaw thrums with tension. “You’re an _ass_ ,” he spits, before he storms out of the doorway, grabbing his jacket on his way to the elevator.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“I thought I told you to buy a new suit,” are the first words out of Jonny’s mouth when Patrick returns three days later. He’s still in the God-awful suit.

“And I thought I told you not everyone has a shit ton of stolen, illegal, money,” bites Patrick.

He glares at Jonny, expression hard and mean like the last time Jonny saw him, but he looks ridiculous in his suit; it does nothing to convey his anger.

Jonny looks at Patrick and the ridiculous suit, deciding that enough is enough. He can’t mold Patrick into the perfect playboy fatale if he looks like he just crawled out of a trash can.

“Cancel all my appointments for this afternoon.”

Patrick’s brow creases. “What? Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” drawls Jonny. “I can’t have you looking like you just crawled out of the trash can.”

Patrick gapes. “I— _You_.”

Jonny waves his hand dismissively. “Go do as your told.”

Patrick opens and closes his mouth before he storms the few feet to his desk, surprisingly doing exactly as he’s told. Jonny makes a call down to Trevor to get the car ready.

“Where are we going?” demands Patrick as Jonny puts a hand on his lower back, guiding him into the elevator. He shrugs off Jonny’s hand, taking two steps away from him into a corner.

“You’ll see,” is all Jonny says.

Trevor is at the curb with the car. It’s the sleekest, newest model 7 Series, all white. Patrick gapes as Trevor says, “good morning, Mr. Toews,” and opens the backdoor.

“In,” commands Jonny.

“This is your car?” asks Patrick, still not getting in the car.

Jonny hums. “Yes, now get in.” He pushes Patrick forward with a well-placed hand on his lower back. Patrick bares his teeth threateningly, but gets in. “There are TVs in here,” he hears Patrick say as he shuts the door and then comes around to the other side of the car, door already opened by Trevor.

“They’re tablets,” he corrects as he settles into his seat.

“Why do you need tablets back here?” Patrick asks as Trevor pulls away from the curb and into traffic. He doesn’t even ask permission to touch, just reaches out and starts to mess with the iDrive. “There’s Wi-Fi?”

Jonny leaves Patrick be, instead concentrating on his phone.

“Where the hell are we even going?” Patrick asks again when the tablets no longer hold his attention. Jonny momentarily lifts his eyes to examine the traffic outside before he returns to his phone.

“Is this it?” prods Patrick. “You’re taking me out to kill me?”

Jonny snorts. “I already told you. I don’t kill people. Other people do that for me. And I wouldn’t let you play with the tablets if you were going to die.”

“So where are we going?” whines Patrick.

Jonny sets down his phone in irritation. “Don’t you ever listen?” He grunts his frustration when Patrick gives him a blank look. He doesn’t dignify him with a response. Patrick sneers, relaxing into his seat.

It’s not long before Trevor pulls out of traffic and onto a side street. “Try to be on your best behavior,” Jonny instructs, sliding out of the car when Trevor opens the door for him. He doesn’t bother to wait for Patrick before he enters the shop.

“Oh,” says Patrick when he enters.

Jonny ignores him to gesture at an employee. “Find Niklas.”

“I don’t want a new suit,” says Patrick as the employee scurries off.

“Too bad you don’t have a choice,” says Jonny, examining a navy, three-piece suit on display. The three-piece is too much, but the navy would be wonderful for Patrick’s eyes.

“I can’t _afford_ a new suit,” tries Patrick.

Jonny spares him a glance but decides to ignore him.

“Jonny,” Niklas says in greeting when he finally appears, and then when his eyes fall on Patrick, “How dare you.”

“ _Hey_!” says Patrick.

“Sorry to drop in short notice,” says Jonny, ignoring Patrick. “But you see what I have to work with.”

Niklas grimaces, nodding in understanding. “It’s all wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my suit,” growls Patrick. Niklas makes a face like he strongly disagrees.

“He’ll need three suits,” Jonny continues. “All black. Slim fit. Shirts too.”

“And ties?” presses Niklas.

“Ties,” agrees Jonny.

Patrick sputters. “ _No_.”

Niklas ignores Patrick, which seems to be everyone’s default setting when it comes to the kid. “Come,” he says, hand on Patrick’s shoulder, leading him to the more private rooms in the back to manhandle him and take measurements. Patrick protests the whole way there but his protests fall on deaf ears.

It takes thirty minutes for them to return. “He is very shy,” smirks Niklas in explanation.

Jonny raises an eyebrow, almost gawking in surprise when Patrick comes from the dressing rooms. “I had a canceled suit,” explains Niklas, which is their code statement for “you probably had the person killed Jonny, could you have at least waited until he picked up the suit, they crowd the showroom.”

The pants are nearly a perfect fit. They hug Patrick’s thighs and his ass as he turns in a circle to examine himself in the mirror. The shirt Niklas has Patrick in actually _fits_ , hugging his shoulders in all the right places. As Niklas helps him slide the jacket on it’s obvious that it needs some tailoring, but when it’s buttoned up, tie tucked away neatly, Patrick looks the perfect picture of a playboy.

“What?” snaps Patrick when he catches Jonny looking at him.

“Just marveling at the fact that you no longer look like garbage."

Patrick sneers, his seemingly default setting when it comes to Jonny. He turns his back to him to examine himself in the mirror, eyes wide with wonder.

“You’re a miracle worker,” Jonny tells Niklas.

Niklas nods at the praise because he knows that he is. “I will have his custom suits by the end of the month, but for now, I think, this suit will do. I will need a few hours to take the jacket in.” He clicks his fingers for an employee as Patrick says, “I can’t afford this.”

His eyes are set hard in defiance, but Jonny can see a bit of shame underneath. He ignores him to pull out his credit card, handing it to the nearest employee.

“You’re not being serious,” says Patrick.

Jonny disregards him to sign the receipt. “I can’t have you looking—”

“—like I crawled out of a trash can,” interrupts Patrick. “Jesus, don’t you have any other insults?”

The employee’s eyes get wide in shock. Niklas gives Jonny an amused smirk, similar to the one Sharpy gave him three days ago. Jonny scowls. “I’m still in the process of training him.”

Patrick glares but keeps his mouth shut. He turns his back on Jonny to reexamine himself in the mirror. He’s obsessed with himself, the cocky shit, Jonny thinks, already overly fond.

Patrick actually _pouts_ when Niklas tells him that he has to take the suit off. “You may have it back tomorrow.”

“I thought you didn’t want a new suit,” Jonny comments as Patrick mopes his way to the car.

“Shut up,” mumbles Patrick.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Niklas has the suit delivered to Jonny’s office first thing in the morning.

Patrick smiles gleefully at the garment bag as Niklas’s assistant hands it over.

“Go change before you pee yourself,” says Jonny, but he can’t help but smile at Patrick’s gleefulness. Patrick has a single dimple on his right cheek. His eyes seem to get impossibly brighter when he’s happier.

“Screw off,” says Patrick, rolling his eyes when Jonny gives him a displeased look. “You said I couldn’t say ‘fuck you’ to you, but nothing about ‘screw you’.”

“Just go change,” Jonny says, waving his hand dismissively.

Niklas really is a miracle worker. They’ll have to do something about the awful, brown shoes, but that can wait. For now Jonny is satisfied that Patrick no longer looks like a complete mess.

“I never—” starts Patrick and stops. He licks his lips nervously. “You’re not as much of an ass as I thought.”

Jonny settles at his desk. “Is that a ‘thank you’?”

“Maybe,” says Patrick with the smallest hint of a smile. He gives Jonny a long look, like he wants to say more, but the phone rings at his desk. He settles down into his seat to answer the phone and start the day.

Jonny watches him through the glass for a long moment. Patrick turns slightly in his seat to exit out of the ever present YouTube. He catches Jonny’s eye through the glass. His lips barely curl at the edges, but it’s a smile.

Jonny feels his own lips move on their own accord.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick becomes softer at the edges.

He still sneers at Jonny, barely keeping his contempt for Jonny’s organized criminal empire and his employees off his face, but he does give Jonny the smallest hints of a smile from time to time and stops sneering at the people who come in to make deals with the mob.

He doesn’t stop with the cat videos.

“Honestly,” says Jonny one day when he has nothing to do but has to stick around his office for team morale. He’s in his doorway, watching Patrick play some ridiculous game about luring cats to a yard off of his phone. “Why cats?”

Patrick shrugs, not even looking at Jonny. “I don’t like dogs.”

“You think I’m a heartless asshole because I have a shit ton of illegal money but you don’t like dogs.”

Patrick leans back in his chair to look over his shoulder at him. “Yes.”

“Who doesn’t like _dogs_?” Jonny feels personally victimized. He no longer cares to shape Patrick into a playboy toy for the mob not if he’s as soulless as this.

Patrick shrugs, tongue peeking out the edge of his mouth as a new cat appears. “I’m afraid of them.”

That’s not the answer Jonny was expecting. He waits for more, but Patrick is immersed in his game. “Please don’t tell me that that cat’s name is actually _Saint Purrtrick_.”

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” says Patrick.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Jonny.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick is softer, friendlier, quicker with his smiles as he and Jonny settle into a routine.

Patrick sits out front at his desk, watching cat videos and answering the phone, smiling charmingly at guests who walk through the doors to beg Jonny for help, flirting shamelessly with Sharpy, while Jonny sits at his desk, the ominous figure who listens to people grovel at his feet like he’s capable of performing miracles. Jonny leaves his door open, Patrick leans back in his chair, and they banter through the door.

Patrick could, at any moment, turn to Jonny and tell him exactly how he found his way into the warehouse. Jonny would nod and let Patrick go home free, but he has a feeling, for all of Patrick’s prejudices against organized crime, that he secretly loves his job. Jonny pays him to watch _cat_ videos for nearly eight hours a day. How could he not?

But since Patrick won’t say anything and Jonny keeps forgetting to get to the bottom of his break-in (no one else has been caught sneaking in, so what’s the point?), Patrick remains his ever-present secretary.

One day Patrick returns early from his lunch break, which is highly unusual. Jonny lets him have an hour; Patrick always takes full advantage of it. He doesn’t know what Patrick does during his break, but he has a suspicion that it has something to do with feeding the neighborhood strays because the number of cats hanging around the warehouse has suspiciously increased ever since Patrick started working here.

Patrick looks miserable, which isn’t far off from how he usually looks when he returns from his break. He gets paid to watch cat videos all day, but that doesn’t mean that his job isn’t boring. There are only so many times that you can watch a cat freak out over ham on its face before it becomes dull.

But the miserable Patrick looks is different from the usual miserable. His face is red from the cold and wind, but it does nothing to remove the haunted, tired look from his eyes. Jonny isn’t great at comforting other people. Usually he looks the other way when someone is dejected, but Patrick is his only lifeline of entertainment until Sharpy gets back from his goodwill mission to Dallas.

Jonny rolls up his sleeves, grabs the master key to the offices, and leans carefully in his office doorway. “Sharpy keeps an emergency stash of chocolate in his desk.”

Patrick looks up at him. There’s a bit of red in the corner of his eyes, like he’s been crying or rubbing at them. “What?”

“Come on,” says Jonny, starting down the hallway, not even checking to see if Patrick’s following.

The floors above the underground warehouse are a series of mazes of offices and cubicles. The two floors directly above the warehouse probably do legitimate, legal, work, but Jonny leaves Antti and Crow in charge of their operations. The third, fourth, and fifth floors act as buffers where no one actually does any work, but there’s a secret medical bay on the fourth floor where Abby—Sharpy’s wife—does illegal but completely sterile operations when shit goes left. And finally, the sixth floor, where Jonny’s office is located, is a maze of offices, but here the offices are occupied by the people Jonny deems his most trusted confidants—Seabs and Duncs, Hoss and Sharpy, and Ladd when he isn’t sorting out the mess that is Winnipeg.

“I don’t understand why there are so many offices,” says Patrick as they weave their way about. The offices are empty. When he’s up here, alone at night, Jonny finds them eerie.

“It’s about appearance,” Jonny explains as they finally stop at Sharpy’s office. “If the police come snooping about, we need to at least appear like we’re a legitimate business. Which we are, by the way.” Patrick gives him a disbelieving look. “Crow and Antti run an insurance firm downstairs you know.”

“And let me guess,” says Patrick as they enter Sharpy’s office. “You all are just _marvelous_ at insurance fraud.”

Jonny grins, using a key to open the lone drawer on Sharpy’s desk. There’s a loaded gun in there, safety on. He moves it to the side, grabbing the chocolate before Patrick can see. He settles into Sharpy’s chair, balancing his feet on the desk before he throws Patrick a chocolate bar. Patrick collapses into a nearby chair.

“Do the police snoop around a lot?” he asks quietly.

“No.” Jonny doesn’t particularly like chocolate, but he breaks off a piece.

“Is that because you give them no reason to snoop around,or because you’ve got ties to the police?”

“A bit of both,” admits Jonny, looking at Patrick.

Patrick is holding uselessly to the chocolate bar. “My parents would be so disappointed if they knew I worked for the mob.”

If this is the reason why Patrick is so miserable, then it’s a stupid thing to be miserable over. “You don’t _actually_ work for the mob.”

Patrick snorts, finally opening his chocolate bar. “I work for _you_. Isn’t that close enough?”

“No,” says Jonny. There’s a difference between answering phones and racketeering. Patrick might work in a building owned by the mob, but he doesn’t _work_ for the mob.

Patrick takes an entire bite out of the chocolate bar. He chews it for a long minute before he says, “So, have I reached a high enough level to unlock your tragic, villainous backstory?” He grins when Jonny looks at him sideways. “C’mon,” he urges. “Why did you start working for the mob?”

Patrick doesn’t deserve to hear Jonny’s so-called ‘tragic, villainous’ backstory, not that it’s tragic or very villainous to begin with, but Patrick presses, of course. “I already know you’re not from Chicago, you Canadian freak.”

“Says the dirty American.” Jonny rolls his eyes as Patrick scoots his chair closer, chin resting on his hands, looking at Jonny like the kid could be anywhere close to the picture of innocent. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me, if you tell me something about you.”

“I already know everything I want to know about you,” remarks Jonny just to see the way Patrick takes in the information. He doesn’t react, except for a little twitch of his jaw. “Patrick Timothy Kane, named for your father, of course. Your mom’s name is Donna and you have three younger sisters: Erica, Jessica, and Jacqueline. You were born November 19, 1994, in Buffalo, New York.”

“You take the fun out of everything,” says Patrick with a pout. He keeps his chin on the back of his hands. “Can you at least tell me where in Canada you’re from?”

“No,” says Jonny.

Patrick frowns. Jonny breaks off another piece of chocolate. “Go all day tomorrow without watching cat videos and I’ll tell you something fun.”

“Fine,” agrees Patrick. “But it better not be something dumb, like you like hockey. You’re Canadian. Everyone likes hockey in Canada.”

Jonny raises both eyebrows. He doesn’t complain when Patrick demolishes his own chocolate bar before reaching over for Jonny’s too. He no longer looks miserable.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“I thought we agreed I would only tell you something if you didn’t watch YouTube today.”

Patrick looks up from his screen, cheeky. “You said you would tell me something if I didn’t watch _cat_ videos. You never said I couldn’t watch hockey highlights.”

Jonny scowls. “If you’re going to waste your time, could you at least watch a team worth watching?”

“ _Hey_ ,” whines Patrick. “Leave the Sabres alone.” He pauses the highlight reel. “What’s your team?”

“Winnipeg,” says Jonny.

Patrick frowns. “Really? You’re going to hate on the Sabres but you pull for the _Jets_?”

Jonny lets the snide remark go. It is coming from someone as soulless and dog-hating as Patrick. He turns to enter his office when Patrick says, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to tell me something fun?”

“I just did, didn’t I?” calls Jonny over his shoulder. He flips through a few pages of a report before he glances over his shoulder at Patrick. Patrick smiles to himself before he shakes his head, returning to his highlight reel.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Hey,” says Patrick two weeks later. “When’s your birthday?”

And Jonny says, “Why is there a cat in your drawer?”

“She’s going to have kittens soon,” explains Patrick like that’s a perfectly just reason to make a makeshift nest in his desk drawer and put a cat in it.

The orange tabby meows.

“Does it have fleas?”

“ _She_ ,” corrects Patrick, “is perfectly healthy.”

Jonny should tell Patrick to take the cat right back out to the garbage where he found her, but he’s exhausted and a bit hungover. Patrick looks at the heavily pregnant tabby with such soft eyes that Jonny just shakes his head and enters his office.

“You never answered my question,” says Patrick, following Jonny into his office, tabby in arm. She meows appreciatively as he rubs her head.

Jonny collapses in his chair and leans his head back. “Why do you want my autobiography?”

“I just want to know how a _Canadian_ ended up being the most powerful man in Chicago.”

“And my birthday has something to do with that?”

“Please?”

Jonny looks at Patrick. He’s pouting, eyes wide, fat tabby cradled adorably against his chest. Jonny sighs, thinks, _fuck me_ , and says, “April 29th.”

When Patrick rolls his eyes, Jonny says, “You said birth _day_ not year.”

“You’re an ass,” says Patrick, taking his tabby outside to sulk at his desk.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

At three Sharpy storms into Jonny’s office, shutting the door behind him.

“There’s a _cat_ in his drawer.”

“Sharpy, shut the fuck up,” says Jonny.

Sharpy grins look a fool. “You _hate_ cats.”

“I don’t _hate_ them,” says Jonny, defensive.

“This is remarkable,” continues Sharpy.

“Please,” says Jonny. “Go away.”

Sharpy sighs, collapsing into a guest chair. “The new police chief is already giving us trouble. Want to go threaten him with me?”

Jonny hasn’t been out on a ‘visit’ for months. “Fine,” he says, grabbing his Glock 21 from his desk drawer.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“1970,” says Patrick as the tabby— _Stanley_ —gives birth on Jonny’s office floor.

“What?” says Jonny, trying not to think about what his life has become as he rubs a kitten dry.

“You were born in 1970.”

“That would make me _forty-six_."

Jonny should be at home in his king size bed, watching the newest episode of Vice off of his 70-inch plasma but instead he’s here, in his office, at nearly midnight, helping an alley cat give birth only because it didn’t feel right leaving Patrick all alone on the scary, eerie, sixth floor because he didn’t want to leave Stanley to give birth alone.

Patrick hums, scratching Stanley’s head. “There’s a good girl,” he says, murmuring to her softly as she pushes out another kitten. There’s already two nestled against her side and one still in Jonny’s lap.

“1960?”

“I would be fifty-six you shit.”

Jonny puts the dry kitten down next to its litter mates, reaching for the newborn. Stanley sniffs his hand, letting him take her kitten.

“19—”

“If you say 50 I’m going to let Boller punch you in the face.”

“Boller _loves_ me,” sasses Patrick.

Jonny rolls his eyes. They sit in relative silence, kittens mewling, as he dries the newest kitten and sets her down with her mother when he’s satisfied that her cries are strong enough.

“1980,” says Patrick. When Jonny doesn’t correct him, he says, “You look good for thirty-six.”

“And you look horrible for twenty-two,” lies Jonny.

Patrick smiles. “I think that’s all of them.” He strokes Stanley’s side, tells her how good of a girl she is, before he tucks her desk drawer nest into a corner of Jonny’s office. “It’s quieter in here,” he explains when Jonny doesn’t even ask.

Patrick moves Stanley’s food dish, and her water bowl, into the corner, making sure they’re filled, and that the kittens are nursing and alive, before he gives Stanley one last pat on the head.

Jonny follows Patrick out of his office, into the elevator, down to the main floor. Desi smiles at them from the security desk, Teuvo sleepy beside him.

Jonny sent Trevor home hours ago, but his car is parked at the curb. His ever present security guards are parked in an unmarked SUV just across the alley. The goons that tail Patrick everywhere are hanging near the front door.

“Hey Jeff, Tim,” Patrick greets.

The goons smile at Patrick.

“You learnt their names?” asks Jonny.

Patrick shrugs. “They do follow me everywhere. Why not?”

Jonny smiles at the endearment of it all, and then frowns. He honestly forgot that he had men trailing Patrick nearly 24/7. Neither Jeff, nor Tim, nor anyone they report to, have ever brought up any reasons to suspect Patrick of any sort of foul play, or ties to rival mobs or the police force.

“Hey,” says Patrick, easy, knocking his shoulder into Jonny’s arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Let me take you home,” blurts Jonny.

Patrick huffs a laugh of surprise. “Really?”

“Not like that, you dick,” says Jonny, opening the car door for Patrick anyway. “Don’t you usually take the bus?”

“Am I allowed to play with the tablets this time?” jokes Patrick but climbs into the car. Jonny shuts the door behind him.

As Jonny starts the car Patrick says, “Do you even have a license?”

“No,” lies Jonny, pulling into traffic.

Patrick is quiet except for the occasional instructions on when to turn. He’s tired, but the tiredness looks good on him. His eyes are soft, lips parted as he tries not to fall asleep in Jonny’s car.

Patrick doesn’t live in the nicest neighborhood, but it’s not the worst, either. “Thanks,” he says as he shuffles out of Jonny’s car in front of his apartment complex. “Way better than the bus. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jonny watches him enter the building, making note of the black SUV parked on the corner and decides that for some reason the thought of Patrick taking the bus home makes him so irrationally angry, that it’s not going to happen again.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

When Patrick exits his building the next morning and sees Jonny parked at the curb, he raises an eyebrow, sauntering on over. Trevor rolls down the window for Jonny.

“Really?” says Patrick.

“Get in,” commands Jonny.

Patrick slides into the backseat as Trevor rolls up the window. “I was fine taking the bus you know.” Jonny bites back his, _I wasn’t fine with you taking the bus_ and indicates for Trevor to get going.

“Seriously,” says Patrick. “You don’t have to pick me up. My neighbors are going to talk.”

Jonny ignores him to watch the morning news off his tablet. “My neighbors already think I’m a prostitute,” remarks Patrick. Jonny pauses the news. “I’m always seen with different men. And now you show up in your flashy BMW. They’re either going to think that I have a sugar daddy now or I stepped up my clientele.”

“At least they’ll think you’re hardworking,” comments Trevor. “Seeing as you start your day early.”

Patrick laughs. Jonny feels a spike of jealousy. Patrick doesn’t laugh at him like that.

He scowls the whole way to the office.

The first thing Patrick does when they get to the office is shrug out of his impossibly expensive suit jacket, roll up his sleeves, and wait impatiently for Jonny to unlock his office door. Stanley meows happily when she sees him.

She’s not in her makeshift nest. Patrick scoops her up and kisses her head before she wiggles out of his arms to jump into her nest. Patrick gets on his knees, cooing at the kittens. “They’re so pretty Stanley,” he says. “But of course they are. Look at their mama.”

“Scoop the litter box,” demands Jonny, trying not to think about the fact that he has a _litter box_ in his _office_.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Sharpy finds out about the kittens within the hour.

He saunters into Jonny’s office, opens his mouth to say something, and then stops as Stanley meows.

“What the fuck,” he says.

“Be quiet,” commands Jonny.

A kitten mewls.

“It had kittens?” whispers Sharpy harshly.

“Her name is Stanley,” says Patrick quietly, appearing in the doorway. He looks as proud about the kittens as Stanley, which means that he’s over the moon. “You have to be quiet not to scare the kittens.”

Sharpy looks at Patrick, the makeshift nest, and then at Jonny. His face goes from mild shock to manic glee. “Of course,” he whispers. “Jonny’s office is soundproof. It makes sense.” He grins sleazily at Jonny as he pulls out his phone. “Can I take a picture? To show Abby and the girls?”

“Of course,” says Patrick, all pretty dimple.

Sharpy snaps his picture, ruffles Patrick’s curls, and walks down the hall with a glee in his step. Jonny isn’t surprised when Seabs shows up at his office an hour later. 

Seabs shuts the door carefully behind him before he takes a seat across from Jonny.

Seabs rarely pays Jonny visits these days. When Jonny was still a rookie, wet behind the ears, none the wiser to holding a gun or to mob life, Seabs had taken him under his wing, had stayed by Jonny’s side as Jonny had fought his way to the top. But now Seabs has an unwavering trust in his ability to lead and only drops into Jonny’s office when shit truly hits the fan, or if he feels like Jonny is falling off the right path. “I don’t think I have to tell you how cliché it is that you're sleeping with your secretary.”

Stanley fills the quiet between them with a soft meow.

“I’m not sleeping with him,” says Jonny.

Seabs looks unconvinced. “You’re the most powerful man in Chicago, and you have an alley cat and her kittens making your office their home only because your secretary batted his pretty eyelashes at you.”

Patrick hadn’t even batted his pretty eyelashes. Stanley had gone into labor, Patrick had dragged his drawer into Jonny’s office, and that had been that. Jonny doesn’t tell Seabs that, though.

“How are you going to conduct business with _kittens_ nursing three feet away?”

Jonny remains quiet. He’s the most powerful man in Chicago, but he’s powerless against Seabs disappointment. Seabs sighs, shaking his head. “Dayna says I’m not allowed to yell at you because you haven’t shown any romantic interest in another person in over two years.”

Jonny gapes. Seabs stands, reaching into the nest to give Stanley a little stroke. “Be careful. Once your enemies realize that you have a weak link, they’re going to use it against you.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” Jonny insists.

Seabs straightens, making for the door. “Not yet, at least,” he says and leaves Jonny staring.

When Seabs is gone, Patrick hesitates in the doorway. “The mayor is on his way.” Jonny shakes his head to recover himself. “Do you. Do you want me to take Stanley back to the alley?”

“No,” says Jonny with a long sigh. “No, she can stay here. She just gave birth.”

“You sure?” says Patrick, chewing on his lip. “It’s the _mayor_.” He makes a face, his contempt for the mayor of Chicago having deals with the mob hard to keep off of his face.

“It’s fine,” Jonny insists. “Just make sure that the litter box is clean.”

Patrick nods. He cleans the litter box and then takes it out to his desk, tucking it under his desk and out the way.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Ben Smith, the youngest mayor Chicago has ever had, is absolutely taken by Stanley and her kittens.

He cradles Stanley against his chest, not caring about the orange hair all over his jacket and says, “I want one when they’re old enough.”

Jonny looks at him sideways. Ben says, “No one’s letting me pass any bills, Jonny.”

Jonny sighs, longsuffering.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Two weeks after the kittens are born, Patrick pulls a cat carrier seemingly out of nowhere after a long day of work and starts to put the kittens away.

“Where are you taking them?” asks Jonny, aware that he’s too defensive over the well-being of the kittens, so sue him. He’s glared every single person who’s walked into his office and made a face at the kittens into submission.

“They need to go to the vet,” says Patrick, scooping Stanley right into the carrier too. “Can you drop me off?”

Jonny intends to leave Patrick at the vet like he requested, but then he thinks of Patrick riding the bus home with the kittens and Stanley, how much of a hassle that will be, because Jonny’s pretty sure animals aren’t allowed on public transportation, and decides to stay. He'll take Patrick and the cats straight home after the vet visit.

Patrick is confused when Jonny gets out of the car. “You don’t have to stay.”

“How would you get home?” says Jonny, sauntering into the veterinarian’s office without him.

“I can take a cab, you know,” Patrick says as he sets the carrier down on a seat next to Jonny.

“Just go check them in,” says Jonny.

Stanley is meowing unhappily in her carrier. Jonny sticks a finger through the door, scratching between her eyes.

Stanley is much happier when Patrick takes her out of the carrier once they’ve been escorted to a room. “You could stay in the lobby, you know,” he says, and doesn’t bother to hide his fond smile. The smile makes Jonny flush.

The veterinarian is a lovely woman named Dr. Howe, or Jonny thinks she’s lovely until she starts poking Stanley with needles.

“Stop scowling,” says Patrick. “She needs to be vaccinated.”

Jonny continues to scowl.

Dr. Howe decides that the kittens and Stanley are healthy. She sends them back to the lobby to pay and make an appointment to have Stanley spayed for when the kittens start weaning.

Patrick smiles prettily at the receptionist, frowning when she hands over the bill. “What?” says Jonny.

“Nothing,” lies Patrick.

Jonny stares.

“It’s a little more expensive than I thought,” admits Patrick.

Jonny sighs, taking out his card, handing it over to the receptionist.

“Jonny,” breathes Patrick.

“She lives on company property,” says Jonny. “I’ll write it off as a company expanse.”

Patrick gives Jonny, a soft, fond look.

In the car Patrick says, “Maybe you don’t have a tragic, villainous backstory.”

Jonny’s breath hitches.

Outside his building Patrick sets the carrier down on the sidewalk and then leans back into the car and over the divider separating the backseats to plant a kiss on Jonny’s cheek.

“Thank you,” he says, all bright eyes and that single damn dimple before he smiles at Trevor. He retreats to the sidewalk, shutting the door behind him before he grabs the carrier and hurries into his building.

Trevor lets out a breath from the driver’s seat.

“Not a word, Trevor,” says Jonny when he can work his mouth.

“I would never,” lies Trevor, steering easily back onto the street.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

In the morning Patrick climbs into the car, Stanley and her kittens in their carrier. “I think they missed the office. Stanley wouldn’t stop crying all night.”

Jonny stares. Patrick says, “And I’m not allowed any pets.”

“What are you going to do when they’re older?”

Patrick shrugs. “Keep them at your office until you have enough?”

Jonny knows that he’ll allow four kittens and their alley cat mother to take over his office only because Patrick wishes it.

He’s so fucked.

 

\- - -

 

 

They don’t talk about the kiss on the cheek because there’s nothing to talk about. It was a gesture of gratitude, that’s all, but Jonny upgrades Jeff and Tim from just goons that are supposed to tail Patrick to goons who are supposed to tail Patrick and protect him with their lives.

Neither look surprised by their upgrade.

Jonny dismisses them from his office before he fires them both.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The kittens start to escape the desk drawer at four weeks.

They meow and wobble their way around Jonny’s office while Stanley lounges on his desk.

Seabs comes back to Jonny’s office to yell at him more about supposedly sleeping with his secretary but gets distracted by the runt of the litter who meows at his feet. “How much longer until they can be adopted?”

“Four more weeks."

Seabs nods. “I think Carter would like a cat.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

At five weeks the kittens are too mobile to stay in the office. When people who aren’t in love with the kittens or Stanley come to talk business Patrick has to stuff them all in a carrier. The family meows, annoyed, until Patrick lets them back out again.

“My building doesn’t allow pets,” says Patrick with a pout, which is how Jonny ends up at a Petsmart on a lazy Tuesday night, pushing a cart as Trevor keeps the car warm. Jeff and Tim follow after them at a leisurely pace.

Patrick bites his lip as he looks between two cat trees. One is a stumpy thing with only one level and the other is _deluxe_ with three. “A scratching post should be fine.”

Jonny rolls his eyes, nudges Patrick to the side, and puts the deluxe box in the cart.

“That’s three hundred dollars,” says Patrick like Jonny didn’t just read the price tag. Jonny ignores him. Patrick says, “Jonny, you can’t spend three hundred dollars on a cat tree.”

“I can do what I want,” says Jonny, pushing the cart down the aisle.

Patrick tries to stick to less-expensive options, but Jonny takes to nudging him to the side to grab the more expensive ones. Patrick looks torn between amusement and worry. “You’ll only have them for three more weeks,” he says. “They don’t need the expensive things.”

Jonny ignores him to choose between the Thermo-Kitty Bed™ Heated Cat Bed or the Thermo-Kitty Bed™ Cuddle Up Heated Cat Bed. He chooses the latter.

“At least let me pay for half,” Patrick insists at the register.

“I already told you. I’m writing it off as a company expanse,” replies Jonny, handing over his card.

The BMW is too small for the outrageous amount of things Jonny was willing to buy, so they have to load half of the things into the security SUV. Jeff and Tim both look far too amused by the amount of stuff so Jonny sends them on ahead.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” jokes Patrick. “I might run off and tell Getzlaf about your new cats when you’re not looking.”

“I better not let you out of my sight then,” replies Jonny.

Trevor makes a wheezing noise.

Jonny gives him a look. Trevor says, “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Trevor,” Patrick says before Jonny can. “You pain me. And for that you’re not getting one of my kittens.”

“They’re not _your_ kittens,” retorts Trevor. “Their _Stanley’s_.” And he emphasizes this by scooping Stanley out of the front seat where she’s been taking full advantage of the heated seats to cuddle her.

Jonny moves a kitten out of his way. “They were supposed to say in the carrier, Trevor.”

“But they were _crying_."

Patrick smiles, collecting a kitten and then another, nudging them gently into the carrier. He reaches under the passenger seat and finds a kitten and then grabs the one sitting in Jonny’s cup holder. For once, the kittens don’t protest their confinement.

Trevor sadly hands Stanley over only because he can’t drive with her in his lap.

Stanley meows but settles into Patrick’s lap.

Jeff and Tim beat them to Jonny’s apartment by five minutes. They’ve already carried most of the things up from the car. Jonny leaves them to do the rest. Patrick looks like he’s about to grab a bag, but Jonny puts a hand on his lower back, steering him towards the elevator.

Patrick drops Stanley when the elevator doors slide open to Jonny’s penthouse. Stanley meows, racing off towards the living room.

“Come on,” says Jonny, nudging him forward.

Patrick follows behind Jonny, mouth open.

“You—You own this entire floor?” he asks as they enter the living room.

Jonny sets the carrier down. He searches through the bags for the puppy play pen he insisted on buying. The penthouse is too big to let four tiny kittens run around freely. At this point they may never see Stanley alive again. “I have to own the entire floor,” he says as Patrick continues to just stand there and gape. “Too much of a risk to share it with someone else.”

Patrick moves pass him to stop in front of the floor to ceiling windows. The whole city is lit up, but from all the way up here it’s hard to make anything out. “This is insane.”

Jonny looks at Patrick and his soft curls, how tiny he looks against the night sky. Tim and Jeff drop off the rest of the bags. Jonny dismisses them without Patrick even noticing. It takes a long few minutes of Jonny fitting pieces together for Patrick to say, “The cats are going to ruin your furniture.”

Jonny grunts. The furniture is expensive and European imported, but it’s all the same to him. If a chair gets a scratch on it, all he has to do is raise a hand and someone will get him a new one. Hell, he hadn’t even _picked_ any of the furniture in the penthouse. Duncs and Seabs and Sharpy had decided that the penthouse of Trump Tower was the best place to put him. Jonny had moved in, no questions asked. The apartment had already been furnished.

Jonny sets the carrier in the middle of the playpen with a blanket off the back of a couch he doesn’t think he’s actually ever sat on. He opens the carrier door. The kittens are all asleep, cuddled together in the back.

Patrick sets a bowl of water down for them and some of the tiny, kitten approved toys, before he digs through the bags for the litter boxes. “This is going to smell horrible.”

Jonny shrugs. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually used the living room. The damn place is so big that there are rooms he hasn’t stepped in for years now. He spends so much time at the office that on most nights he goes straight to the kitchen for a quick meal and a beer, and then straight to bed. Someone could be living in his house with him and he would never know as long as they stayed to the left side of the apartment and avoided the kitchen at any times that he might be home. “It’ll be fine,” he says.

Patrick looks apprehensive, but he climbs into the pen to fill the two litter boxes with kitty litter. He holds the third litter box in hand and says, “I don’t think Stanley will be able to find this.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to find _Stanley_ ,” replies Jonny.

He likes the cat, he does, but she could die on the other side of the apartment and he would never know, or care, but Patrick _would_ : that’s what matters. Patrick frowns. Jonny says, “She’ll come back for her babies.”

They put a food dish and water bowl on a mat in the kitchen. Jonny assures Patrick that Stanley will be lured back by the smell of food. They put her litter box in a corner out of the way, Jonny leaving the note for the housekeeper he never sees to start cleaning the litter boxes.

Patrick looks around the large, spotless kitchen. “Don’t you get lonely up here?”

Jonny hasn’t thought about loneliness in a long time.

He lives a life of crime. He has enemies on every coast and in three different countries. He has murdered and stolen and _ruined_. Loneliness is a fleeting concept. He shrugs.

Patrick gives Jonny this long, sad look like he knows without Jonny having to say it that he lives in this giant penthouse all by himself, with no one to share it with, except for an alley cat and her kittens.

“Don’t look at me like that,” says Jonny. He turns his back on Patrick to rummage through the fridge for a beer. He pops the cap and takes a long swig as Patrick watches him.

“You’re lonely,” says Patrick.

“You don’t know anything,” snaps Jonny.

Patrick gives him that long look again. “I’m going to go find Stanley.”

“Fine,” sneers Jonny.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny sulks on his beer for five minutes before he starts after Patrick.

It might be impossible to find Stanley, but he’ll have better luck with Patrick who’s _hopefully_ found Stanley.

He starts in the obvious places: the living room where the kittens are still asleep in their carrier, the family room, and the media room, which he completely forgot he even had. Patrick is in neither of those places.

Jonny feels exhausted by the time he makes it to the study. He checked the exercise room, and all four bedrooms between the study and the living room. There’s been no sign of the tabby or Patrick until now.

The light is on in Jonny’s bedroom. He can see it from the doorway of the study which is connected to his bedroom.

He finds Patrick in the middle of the room, Stanley clutched in his arms. She purrs happily as Patrick strokes down her back, but he’s absentminded about it as he stares out at the city. The penthouse is in the shape of an oval with floor to ceiling windows in every room. No matter which way a person turns, they’re presented with a stunning view of the city.

Stanley opens her yellow eyes when Jonny steps into the room, meowing in greeting. Patrick startles, Stanley taking the opportunity to wiggle out of his arms and run pass Jonny back into the study.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “She was on your pillow.”

There's a scatter of orange cat hair all over one of Jonny’s pillows. The bed is a king and he only sleeps on one side. Stanley was nice enough to curl up on the only pillow Jonny actually uses. “That means she likes you.”

“Isn’t she sweet,” says Jonny.

Patrick snorts. He looks at the pillow covered in cat hair and says, “I’ll find Stanley and the last kitten a new home as soon as I can.”

Jonny shrugs a shoulder. “They can stay here for as long as they need.”

Patrick smiles, that one damn dimple making an appearance. “I, uh. I should get going.”

Jonny nods quickly. “I’ll tell Trevor to get the car ready.”

Patrick frowns, a slight tug on his lips, but he nods, and follows Jonny out of the bedroom, grabbing Stanley on the way. He clutches her to his chest until the car is ready, reluctant to put her down. She slinks away in the direction of the living room and her kittens when Patrick finally puts her down.

Jonny rides with Patrick in the elevator, down into the garage where Trevor is waiting with the car.

“Thank you,” Patrick says as Jonny gets the door for him. Jonny smiles his welcome, watching Patrick carefully to make sure that he buckles his seatbelt.

“I mean for everything,” clarifies Patrick eyes wide and honest.

“They’re cats, Patrick.”

“No. I mean—” Patrick swallows “—just, never mind. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

“Yeah,” replies Jonny. “Get him home safe, Trevor.”

“I always do, sir,” replies Trevor and waits for Jonny to shut the door before he pulls carefully out of the garage. Jonny watches the car leave before he climbs back into the elevator and back up to the penthouse.

Stanley greets him as soon as the elevator doors open. She zig-zags between his legs, meowing annoyingly until Jonny gives up and scoops her into his arms. “He’s spoiled you rotten,” he tells her as he scratches under her chin. Stanley purrs her agreement.

Jonny carries her to the living room, dropping her gently into the playpen. The kittens are out of their carrier, meowing excitedly when they see Jonny, but when they realize that he isn’t going to play with them they leave him alone to annoy their mother who jumps on top of the carrier and out of their reach.

“Be a good mom,” Jonny instructs, scratching Stanley’s head one more time before he turns off the light and wanders to his bedroom.

He waits impatiently for a text from Tim to let him know that Patrick is home and safe before he hops in the shower. When he exits the bathroom, Stanley is on his pillow, _again_.

“I thought I told you to be a good mom.”

Stanley meows and flicks her tail. Jonny feels indecent dropping his towel in front of her, so he grabs his underwear and changes in the bathroom.

“Good moms don’t abandon their children,” he tells Stanley as he climbs into bed and shoos her from his pillow. He wipes away as much cat hair as he can, thinking lightly about how he hasn’t spoken to his own mother in a very long time, but as soon as his head hits the pillow, Stanley climbs over his head to curl against his shoulder. He should shoo her away because this is a habit that shouldn’t be reinforced, but Stanley is stubborn and will only come back.

“Don’t tell Patrick about this,” he says.

Stanley purrs her agreement.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny means to see Patrick the next day, but a deal goes sour at Navy Pier and he gets shot right through the left shoulder.

He hasn’t been shot in _years_. He’s more pissed about it than he is anything else, especially since Saader doesn’t care about getting blood all over his all white interior.

Abby is _extremely_ judgmental as she digs the bullet out of his shoulder.

“I didn’t shoot myself,” he says as she tsks at him, poking him with a needle. Jonny isn’t even sure what the needle is for—she’s probably only poking him to be cruel.

“It takes a shooting for you to come visit me,” Abby says, pressing a gauze bandage to the wound before she begins to wrap his shoulder and chest in even more gauze.

Jonny realizes that the needle was filled with something good because the pain in his shoulder starts to recede. “You’re the best, Abby.”

“You all say such sweet things to me when I get you high.” She helps Jonny get his arm in a sling and then his jacket over his shoulders before she sends him home to get rest.

“This isn’t _my_ car,” he complains as Abby buckles his seatbelt, Saader climbing sheepishly in next to him.

“There’s blood all over the back seat of your car, sir,” he explains.

“That was my favorite car, Saad.”

Saader frowns. Abby sighs, patting his knee. “Not like you weren’t looking for an excuse to buy a new one.” She ignores Jonny after that to give Saader strict instructions on making sure that Jonny goes straight home and then straight to bed. His injury isn’t life threatening, but he needs rest, she insists, at least a week of it.

“A _week_?” Jonny protests as soon as the word is out of Abby’s mouth. “Who’s going to run things while I’m gone?”

“Don’t worry,” says Abby. “Sharpy is throwing a coup as we speak.” She smiles, shutting the door in his face.

Jonny sulks the entire way home, and the entire way up the elevator, _and_ the entire way to bed. He mutters angrily to himself about the precious interior of his car as he strips down to his underwear, Saader helping him into bed. Saader smiles amusedly at him while he props and fluffs pillows.

As Saader patters about the room, hanging clothes up and turning on the TV, Stanley slinks into the room. She meows at him, and then at Jonny before she jumps onto the bed. She sniffs at Jonny’s injured shoulder before she plops herself in his lap, pushing against his chest with her tiny paws until he finally gives in and pets her.

“I’ll be in the living room, sir, call if you need me,” says Saader with a delighted look on his face as he gives Stanley a good scratch behind the ears.

“Shouldn’t you be taking care of your kittens?” Jonny asks the cat once Saader is gone. Stanley ignores him to arrange herself more comfortably.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny spends most of the rest of the morning watching reality television trash reruns. Stanley keeps him company for the most part, disappearing from time to time to hopefully go take care of her kittens, but she always returns, plopping herself right on his lap or sometimes on his chest when Jonny’s slid down enough for her to.

He knocks out some time around noon after Saader brings him lunch. He feels Stanley leave at one point, walking down his legs to hop off the bed. He only wakes again when she returns, this time clutched in Patrick’s arms, a new, pretty, light blue collar around her neck. It’s the little blue bell attached to her collar that wakes him.

“Sorry,” says Patrick. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He looks at Jonny, all wide, baby blues, a little red at the edges. He’s in civilian clothes. His khaki shorts are _horrible_ , especially since he’s decided to pair the shorts with an old, worn hoodie.

“It’s okay,” says Jonny, sitting up, shoulder twinging. “What are you doing here?”

“Boller said you were shot.”

Patrick steps forward, right next to the bed, looking at his chest and shoulder. There’s an old bullet wound on Jonny’s side that he almost died from and a few old scars. “Trevor didn’t show up this morning and when I made it into work, Sharpy told me to go home. He wouldn’t tell me why. Boller was the only one who would tell me what was going on.”

Jonny scowls. He hadn’t even thought about Patrick and how worried he must have been when the car hadn’t shown up. He looks at Patrick, ready to apologize, before he zones in on the red of Patrick’s eyes. “Have you been _crying_?”

Patrick tsks, shaking his head, but Jonny knows it’s all an act. “You _have_ been crying.”

“ _Have not_ ,” hisses Patrick, ignoring Jonny to cuddle Stanley. Jonny raises an eyebrow. Patrick says, “I overheard Mark say we lost two men before Boller explained what was going on. I figured something was wrong because not even Jeff or Tim followed me to work today, and you weren’t in your office, and the entire sixth floor was in chaos. Even Hossa was in today, and Duncs was talking about bringing Ladd in from Winnipeg. I thought—” Patrick takes a deep breath. “I thought you were _dead_.”

He looks at Jonny, eyes wet at the edges. “No one would tell me what was going on.”

Stanley seems to sense that Patrick is upset, because she shifts in his arms to press her head under his chin.

“I’m sorry,” says Jonny, quiet. He hadn’t—he hadn’t even spared a stray thought for Patrick, who as only his secretary was kept completely in the dark. He must have been so worried with Jonny’s unexpected disappearance and Mark’s overhead two men down comment, which—wait.

Someone as low on the ladder as Mark shouldn’t know about the two men they lost this morning.

“Wait,” says Jonny. “Mark said there were two men down?”

Patrick furrows his brow in confusion. “Yeah, Mark. The asshole who tied me to the chair. Why?”

“Are you _sure_ it was Mark?”

Patrick drops Stanley on Jonny’s lap before he drags a fancy chair that’s always been in the corner to Jonny’s bed side. “Sharpy wouldn’t tell me anything, not even when I begged. So I went down to the warehouse. Mark was there with some other lackeys. He said, ‘we lost two men this morning’, and didn’t even look fucking sad about it. I thought one of the men might be you, so I went and found Boller and Shawsy. Boller was complaining about how he got grazed by a bullet and how the scar was going to ruin his tattoo, and it didn’t even matter because you got shot anyway.”

Patrick pauses, brows coming together as he connects the dots. “Boller saw my face, and I guess he knew what I had been thinking, so he told me that you were okay and that you were being patched up by Abby. Boller knew we lost two men because he was obviously there when it happened. Shawsy and I knew through Boller, but the reason you’re asking me if I was sure it was Mark who said ‘two men down’ is because he wasn’t there, was he? And he’s not supposed to know about the two men down.”

There’s no point in lying to Patrick. Jonny is too grumpy about the whole being shot thing and Patrick is too smart for that. “Mark is a warehouse lackey. He knows what he’s allowed to know and nothing else. Boller and Shawsy are too loyal and smart to let him eavesdrop.”

Patrick stares at Jonny. “That means—”

“We have a rat on our hands,” says Jonny. He pushes Stanley off his lap, narrowly missing colliding with Patrick as he swings out of bed. “Is Saader still in the living room?”

Patrick nods shakily, pushing his chair back.

“Get Saader for me."

“Boller and Shawsy are out there too,” says Patrick. When Jonny looks at him, he adds, “Trevor got sent home early and Boller gave me a ride. Shawsy wanted to come and see the kittens.”

“Right,” says Jonny and can’t even be surprised by his employees anymore. “Go get them, please.”

Patrick watches Jonny shuffle about the room. “What are you going to do?”

“Get dressed,” replies Jonny, struggling to get a pair of jeans on.

Patrick scowls, shaking his head. “No, I mean about Mark. What are you going to do about Mark?”

Jonny will kill Mark eventually. But for now, he needs to inform his top men. Saader, Boller, and Shawsy are on the lower half of that spectrum, but he trusts them and knows that they’re loyal. He’ll need them to get in contact with Hoss and Sharpy. When there is one rat, there are always more, and Jonny won’t trust anyone else to convey the message to the sixth floor. “It’s none of your concern, Patrick.”

“ _None of my concern_?” hisses Patrick. He stomps over to where Jonny is admittedly still struggling to get his jeans on. Without warning, he crowds into Jonny’s space, pulling his fingers through his belt loops, unceremoniously pulling them up and over Jonny’s ass. “You wouldn’t know that you had rat in the first place if it weren’t for me.”

That _is_ true, but unfortunately—or fortunately, whatever way the coin lands—for Patrick, Jonny’s become too close. He intends to keep Patrick alive and safe and away from Mark, or any other rats, for that matter. “You’re staying out of this,” he says as he buttons his jeans.

Patrick stares at him. He’s still crowded into Jonny’s space, fingers still loose in the belt loops at Jonny’s side. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

The thing is, Jonny knows that that’s true. Patrick has him wrapped around his finger and he did it so easily, too. Those damn baby blues had him captured right from the beginning. “I can,” Jonny insists, anyway. “And you’re staying out of this.”

“No,” argues Patrick.

He’s so close, Jonny can see the freckles across his nose. “ _Yes_.”

“ _Why_?”

If only Patrick was a lackey who followed orders without questions. But he’s not even a lackey to begin with, so that’s useless wishing in the first place. Patrick sets his mouth in a hard, set, line, defiance written all over his face.

Jonny does the only thing that comes to mind, which is to grasp Patrick’s face with his good hand and kiss him.

Patrick freezes for a horrifying few seconds before the tension melts from his body with the slight parting of his lips. Jonny pulls away and says, “That’s why.”

Patrick blinks slowly at him, fingers still in Jonny’s belt loops.

“I let an alley cat have kittens in my office only because you put them there,” continues Jonny.

Patrick looks slightly guilty about that. “You love Stanley and the kittens.”

“Not the point,” says Jonny, resisting the urge to kiss Patrick again only because Patrick is right there and will let him do it. “Seabs thinks we’re sleeping together.”

“We could be,” murmurs Patrick, that cocky smile making an appearance.

Jonny pauses because, wow, yes, okay, he would really like to sleep with Patrick, but that’s not the point right now. “We’ll talk about that later,” he says to Patrick’s obvious disappointment, if the way he frowns is anything to go by. “I need you away from Mark. I need you safe.”

“What about you?” says Patrick, eyes on Jonny’s injured shoulder. “The only way Mark could have known that two of your men were down was if someone on the other side had told him. He could have—what if they had missed your shoulder?”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Jonny. “They could have shot me in the heart and it wouldn’t have mattered as long as you were safe.”

Patrick’s eyes get wide in surprise. “Jonny—”

“I told you when we first met that you were _mine_ ,” Jonny cuts in. He leans in, kissing Patrick again, this time more persistent. Patrick doesn’t freeze this time, just sighs, pressing his lips against Jonny’s, opening his mouth for his tongue.

Jonny kisses him until Stanley meows, moving between their legs, insistently.

“Cock block,” says Patrick, fond as he picks her up. Stanley meows.

Patrick follows Jonny into the living room where Saader and Boller and Shawsy are relaxing on Jonny’s expensive furniture, kittens and their toys scattered about the room. They don’t even try to look presentable when Jonny enters.

“We’ve got a rat on our hands,” announces Jonny.

“Jesus Christ,” says Boller, shoulder wrapped where the bullet grazed him “Who is it this time?”

“ _This_ time?” repeats Patrick.

“Mark,” says Jonny, wishing that he could take a long drink from the wet bar that he never conveniently forgets about, but Abby has a sixth sense about these things. He’s not dumb enough to mix drugs and alcohol.

“ _Mark_?” repeats Shawsy.

“You think Mark is a rat working for Getzlaf,” says Saader.

“How do you know it’s Getzlaf he’s working for?” asks Patrick. He looks between all four of them. Jonny’s reminded that Patrick, despite working _for_ him, has been completely sheltered from any of the inner-workings of the mob. “Who _is_ Getzlaf anyway?”

“The biggest dick out of southern California,” replies Shawsy. “And he shares the space with Brown, which is saying a lot.”

“He’s not as bad as Kesler,” comments Saader. “I fucking hate Kesler.”

Patrick looks even more confused than he did before. Saader is the one who takes pity on him. “There’s a mob, or something like it, in every major city in the States and some in Canada too, and some not even in major cities. Everyone kind of knows about everyone else. For the most part, everyone stays out of everyone’s business, unless there’s a benefit from working together.”

“We used to, uh. Let’s just say, California’s pretty close to Mexico, yeah?” continues Saader. “Well, the mobs down there control what comes in and out of Mexico, at least along the California border. There’s Getzlaf’s group in Anaheim and Brown’s men in L.A.. We used to rely on Getzlaf and Brown for a supply, but things have always been sour between them, which was difficult for us, not stepping on either of their toes. So when Jonny took over, we decided to stop dealing with them and start working with Benn down in Dallas. Dallas isn’t close to the border, but Benn’s got pretty much all of Texas under his thumb, and he’s much nicer, in my opinion.”

“Getzlaf and Brown didn’t take too well to us severing ties,” comments Boller.

Saader nods. “We had trouble with Brown, but after a few exchanges that didn’t go too well for them, Brown and his men backed off. We stay out of L.A. and they stay out of Chicago. Getzlaf and his guys, well, even after we kicked their asses, they never let their grudge go. They went after us first, and then Benn’s men, tried to pit us against each other, but Mr. Toews and Benn are friends, and that didn’t work out. After that, Getzlaf left Benn alone and kept coming for us, and he hasn’t stopped since.”

“He has fucking Kesler in his damn ear,” says Shawsy.

“Kesler?” asks Patrick.

“Ryan fucking Kesler,” mutters Jonny.

“Kesler is Getzlaf’s right hand man, right after Corey Perry,” explains Saader. “They’re like Seabs and Sharpy. Getzlaf might be the boss, but Kesler’s got a lot of say in what happens down there.”

Patrick looks at Jonny. “And Kesler hates you because—?”

Jonny really wants that drink now. “Kesler’s just a dick.”

Patrick doesn’t look like he believes that, but for once he doesn’t press. “So Getzlaf is the number one suspect for Mark to be working for?”

Jonny nods. “Brown and I don’t have any problems, not anymore. And I try not to make enemies out of the other big guns. There’s no point in starting a cross-country war. But Getzlaf and Kesler don’t seem to care. They want revenge over worthless shit that doesn’t even matter.”

“You stopped buying your drugs from them and started buying them from someone else,” reasons Patrick. “I would be mad too.”

“It was business,” grits Jonny.

“I understand that,” argues Patrick. “I’m just—they could have killed you today, yeah? So why didn’t they? And _why_ were you even at Navy Pier? I thought other people did your work.”

Jonny doesn’t like being questioned, especially not in front of other people, but Patrick will be Patrick. He's never cared about formalities or respect. Boller and Shawsy and Saader are thankfully quiet, but Jonny doesn’t miss the amused look they share.

“It’s none of your business why I was there,” says Jonny instead of admitting that he was there because he had been utterly bored and it had been a long time since he had made any deal in person. “They were trying to kill me. Why do you think two men are dead? And Boller was grazed? I have loyal men ready to die for me.”

Patrick roll his eyes, flopping onto the couch next to Saader. “So, how did they know you’d be there? And who were you making the deal with? Obviously not Benn, since you’re supposedly friends.”

“We already had the drugs from Benn. It was a deal with a minor gang to sell the drugs,” explains Boller.

“I don’t think they knew you were going to be there, sir,” interjects Saader. “They seemed surprised to see you. Everything was going fine until you showed up.”

“You’ve done a deal with this gang before?” asks Patrick.

Jonny nods. “Plenty of times.”

“Maybe Mark is working for Getzlaf, and through Mark, Getzlaf managed to pay off the gang to shoot you, that way it never linked back to Getzlaf,” says Shawsy. “They weren’t prepared for you to be there _today_ , so the shot went wide and got your shoulder instead of your head, but even if you hadn’t shown up unexpectedly, they would have gotten access to you, or to someone else important, sooner or later. Sometimes Duncs or Seabs handle the deals. Them getting taken out effects us just as much you getting killed would.”

“Someone in the gang probably called Mark to let them know that you were there and you’d been shot and two of our men killed, but you were still alive. And the dumb bastard didn’t realize how tight-lipped that information would be and didn’t know to keep his mouth shut,” says Saader.

Jonny shakes his head and rubs between his eyes. His shoulder aches. His bandages feel disgusting. He wants a long shower and more sleep. “You three are the only ones I’ve trusted with this information,so far. Abby wants me out for a week, so I’ll stay out for the week, and we’ll pretend like this was a gang deal gone wrong. But I need you three to make contact with Sharpy and Hossa and let them know what we know. Instruct them not to make any moves without me. Pretend like everything is fine.”

His three employees nod. Boller and Shawsy shrug their jackets back on, ready to do as Jonny instructs.

“I’ll take the bus home,” Patrick says when Boller asks him if he needs a ride. Jonny scowls, because Patrick is definitely _not_ taking a bus anywhere.

Saader hangs back. “Uh, Mrs. Sharp said you aren’t supposed to be left alone, sir.”

Jonny scowls again because he’s not a _child_ , but Patrick smiles and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.”

Saader looks between them,before his eyes get a bit wide in understanding. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, okay. Yeah. I’m just—I, yeah.” And then scurries off to the elevator.

Jonny’s too tired for this shit. “I’m too tired for this shit,” he says, leaving Patrick in the living room to shower.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The gauze comes off in the shower.

The pressure of the water against the fresh bullet wound hurts like hell, but Jonny needs to keep it clean and bares his teeth against the pain.

He towels off and dresses in the bathroom. When enters his bedroom, Patrick is making the bed, Stanley on the bedside table next to a first-aid kit and a new bottle of water.

Patrick looks up at the wound on Jonny’s shoulder, making a face that isn’t of disgust, but of confusion and uncertainty. “We should clean that.”

“I already did,” says Jonny, but collapses on the bed. “But it needs to be dressed.”

Patrick nods. He shoos Stanley out of the way, opening the kit next to Jonny. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Just put the bandage gauze on, and then wrap the roll of the gauze around my chest and across the shoulder.”

Patrick doesn’t need to stand between Jonny’s leg to apply the gauze, but he does anyway. He presses the bandage against Jonny’s shoulder with delicate hands, and applying the roll of gauze with more accuracy than Jonny was expecting.

When he’s done, Jonny reaches out, placing a hand on Patrick’s hip where his hoodie has risen up. He runs his thumb back and forth as Patrick leans forward and kisses his forehead. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” breathes Jonny.

Patrick laughs. “I tried to convince you to let me go. You can admit it, Sharpy was right. You kept me around because I’m pretty.”

Jonny huffs. “I wanted to shape you, you know, into the perfect playboy, once you were done being my secretary.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, smiling. “I still can be, you know.”

Jonny snaps his head up. “ _No_. You’re not going to—you’re _mine_.” He sounds like a possessive asshole already, and he recoils. “I mean. You won’t be doing that. I don’t—”

Patrick gives him that soft, open look. The one he gave Jonny the night before. “We’ll need to work on your possessiveness. I’m not an object for you to own, Jonny.”

“I know,” says Jonny, instantly ashamed.

There’s a long sigh from Patrick, as he cups Jonny’s face in his hands, running his thumb comfortingly against Jonny's jaw. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

Jonny shrugs, without thinking, and hisses at the pain in his shoulder. Patrick frowns. He reaches over, once again having to bat Stanley out the way, to grab pain killers and a water bottle. Jonny takes his medicine like a good boy, and yawns. It’s only late afternoon, but he’s suddenly so very tired.

“Get some rest,” instructs Patrick, giving Jonny a short, sweet, kiss before he scoops Stanley off the bedside table. “I’m going to check on the kittens.”

Jonny does as he’s told. He watches Patrick leave, before he cautiously lowers himself into a lying position. He means to just close his eyes and doze lightly, but he must fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes, the room is completely dark.

The clock says that it’s eight at night. He rubs his eyes, hisses as his shoulder jerks a little in pain, and then crawls off the bed to use the bathroom.

The lights are on in the hallway and the kitchen, but the living room is dark. There’s a note from Patrick on the island, indicating that he’s in the rarely used media room. Jonny makes his way there.

Patrick is curled up on the large couch at the back of the room with a blanket, screen lowered, the projector playing some sort of superhero movie. It’s Captain America themed, Jonny can at least figure that out, but he’s unfamiliar with the movie. It’s been a long time since he sat and watched a movie.

A kitten meows at Jonny’s feet. It’s the gray runt, meant for Carter. He scoops her up, and rubs the soft spot between her eyes. He carries her around the back of the couch.

Patrick looks up at Jonny, eyes heavy with sleep. “Hey,” he murmurs, but doesn’t make any move to sit up.

Jonny wants to join him, even though he’s wide awake, but he’s angry, and if he tries to sleep again, he’ll never sleep tonight. “I’m going to make dinner,” he announces, dropping the kitten on the couch. Stanley is nowhere to be found, but the kitten’s three siblings are climbing a scratching post Patrick must have dragged in from the living room. Jonny never did set up their tree.

“You need help?” asks Patrick, but he doesn’t look inclined to sit up.

“No, finish your movie,” Jonny tells him.

There isn’t much Jonny can do to prepare dinner with an injured shoulder, but luckily it’s his left shoulder, and he’s right handed, so he’s able to get chicken in a skillet to make a basic salad.

Patrick wanders in, blanket around his shoulders, a kitten in hand just as Stanley trots in. Both cats meow at the smell of chicken, but Patrick keeps the kitten out the way. Stanley seems to know not to get too close to the oven, even though she does hang around the counter. Every time Jonny knocks her away gently, she comes right back. “You better not get your hair in my food,” he scolds her. Stanley ignores him, like usual.

Patrick smiles, and prepares the actual salad part, even though Jonny told him to finish his movie. “It was _Age of Ultron_ ,” he explains. “It wasn’t worth finishing.”

“Captain America wasn’t good?” Jonny asks, as he manages to get a chicken breast from the skillet to a plate covered in lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, and far too much ranch dressing to be healthy.

“What? No. Captain America is _awesome_. I mean, _The First Avenger_ was a little lackluster, but _The Winter Soldier_ was a masterpiece. _The Avengers_ was, well. It was boring at parts, and felt more like _Thor 2_ , but I liked it, especially since it established a well-developed friendship between Nat and Steve. And don’t get me started on Nat and Clint. _Age of Ultron_ threw that all out the window, and I didn’t even _finish_ it.”

Jonny’s never seen any of the films Patrick is talking about, so he hums, frowning at his chicken, because it’s going to be horrible trying to cut it. “Wait,” says Patrick, as he crowds into Jonny’s space to handle the problem for him. “You do know what I’m talking about, yeah?”

“Yes,” Jonny lies. When Patrick looks at him incredulously, he says, “Okay, no.”

“I can understand _The First Avenger_ , and I won’t blame you for skipping _Age of Ultron_. But _how_ have you not seen _The Winter Soldier_? You _own_ it.”

“I’ve been _busy_ ,” argues Jonny. “You know, with the whole mob thing and—wait, I _own_ _The Winter Soldier_?”

“Uh, yeah?” Patrick’s brows furrow, as he opens the fridge and helps himself to bottles of water. Jonny isn’t bothered by it.

“Oh,” says Jonny.

“You didn’t know you owned _The Winter Soldier_? You have every movie in the Marvel cinematic universe. I think you might own every movie _ever_.”

Today might have been the first time Jonny’s been to the media room in years. He carries his plate to the rarely used dinning room, finding it spotless.

Patrick gives Jonny that long, sad look. “You didn’t decorate any part of this house, did you?”

Jonny feels weirdly defensive, as he takes a seat at the head of the very long table. “No. It was like this when I moved in. I use the kitchen and my bedroom. This is the first time I’ve ever used this room.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything more. He eats his salad quietly, at the opposite end of the table. When they’re both done, and the plates have been put in the sink for someone else to clean, Patrick grabs Jonny’s hand, leading him back to the media room. Jonny goes willingly.

“Everything is supposed to happen in one universe,” Patrick explains, as Jonny settles on the couch. A kitten climbs up a blanket to annoy him into petting him. “But I think Tony Stark is a dick, and I don’t give a fuck about him. But I love Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, so we’ll start with _The First Avenger_.” Jonny has no idea who these people are, but he’s willing to learn, if that means he gets to have Patrick curled against his side.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They fall asleep somewhere during _The Avengers_. Jonny only knows this, because when he wakes up the next morning, Patrick breathing nasally against his chest, the home screen is urging him to press play.

That’s where Abby finds him, an hour later.

Patrick is still fast asleep. Jonny really needs to piss, but he feels like waking Patrick is equivalent to waking a sleeping puppy in his lap: wholly, and completely, wrong, so he presses play, lowers the volume, and skips ahead to where he thinks they left off.

“Well, isn’t this adorable,” whispers Abby, as she enters the room, Stanley in her arms.

Jonny startles. Patrick whimpers against his chest, but he doesn’t wake. Jonny glares Abby’s way.

Abby smiles, letting Stanley out of her arms. “This must be Patrick.” She looks at Patrick adoringly. “He’s lovely.”

“That’s only because he’s asleep,” says Jonny. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to check your shoulder,” answers Abby. “Although, I got over here sooner than later once Boller let me know that Patrick was staying behind to look after you.”

Boller. That _traitor_.

“And I’m a little upset that you didn’t introduce me to Patrick sooner,” adds Abby. “I thought we were closer than that, Jonny.”

“It’s a new thing,” Jonny admits because he’d only admit such a thing to Abby.

Abby smiles her fond, motherly smile. “I’d hate to wake Sleeping Beauty, but I need to check your wound. Meet me in the living room.”

Waking Patrick is like torture. He looks so peaceful while asleep. He startles when Jonny nudges him, jumping, eyes wide and panicked, almost falling off the couch.

“Sorry,” says Jonny. “I need to piss and Abby’s here to check my shoulder.”

“Abby?” mumbles Patrick as he rubs his eyes.

“Sharpy’s wife. She’s a doctor.”

Patrick sits up. His curls are everywhere, lips pouty. “Can I shower?”

“Yeah, of course. There’s spare towels in the cabinet in my bathroom. Help yourself to whatever.” Jonny doesn’t mention that every other bedroom in the house has a bathroom that’s probably fully stocked. Patrick probably knows that too, but instead of heading to the closest bedroom, he heads to Jonny’s, stopping momentarily to wave at Abby, before he goes to shower.

Abby is completely amused when Jonny removes his shirt for her to examine the bullet wound. “And how new is this relationship?”

Jonny won’t admit that it’s hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. Abby smiles. “Feelings shouldn’t be measured in time.”

“Is that what you told Sharpy every time he gave you a shitty proposal?”

Abby laughs, pulling off the gauze. “I secretly enjoyed watching his soul leave his body every time I said no.”

Patrick finishes his shower, just as Abby’s closing her kit. His hair is wet, and he’s in Jonny’s clothes, which makes Jonny’s breath go short. The white Henley is too wide in the shoulders, the sweats too low on the hips. He looks so small in Jonny’s clothes. It makes something rumble low in Jonny’s belly.

“Hello,” greets Abby. “You must be Patrick. I’m Abby Sharp.” She stands, going to Patrick to shake his hand.

Patrick puts on the charming smile, shaking Abby’s hand. “How can you stand to be married to Sharpy?”

Abby sighs. “So much vodka. And I love my children.”

Abby and Patrick hit it off, much to Jonny’s relief, which surprises him, because he wasn’t even aware that he needed her approval. But he loves Abby, and Sadie and Maddy, and _perhaps_ Sharpy. He couldn’t have someone in his life that none of them liked.

Patrick isn’t out of the woods yet, though, because he still needs to win over Dayna.

Jonny leaves them to take a shower, careful not to get his new bandages wet. Abby is gone when he towels off and dresses, and comes back out to the living room.

Patrick has a bowl of cereal. “I like Abby. She’s nice.”

“Wait until you meet Dayna.”

Patrick chews on his cereal. “Seabs’s wife,” Jonny clarifies, when Patrick swallows.

Patrick mouths curls up into a smile. “Is that your way of saying I’ve got to meet the family?”

Jonny ignores him to scratch Stanley behind the ears. Her bell jingles as she moves about. “Why does she have a collar?”

“We needed a way to find her in this big ole house of yours,” explains Patrick. “And I’m sure I’ll win Dayna over. I won Seabs over, didn’t I?”

Jonny raises an eyebrow. That's all he says about that. “Are you going to stick around today?”

Patrick shrugs. “You want me to? It’s not like I have to go to work or anything.”

Jonny snorts. “Yeah, of course. We can watch more movies, if you want?”

“Yeah,” replies Patrick. “I would like that.”

They watch movies all day, pausing for lunch and bathroom breaks, and the occasional conference call, because Abby might want him out of the office for a week, but it doesn’t mean things stop moving because Jonny’s gone.

That night, after finishing _Big Hero 6_ , instead of doing the whole awkward, should I go home? thing, Patrick follows Jonny to his bedroom. He brushes his teeth next to Jonny with a borrowed toothbrush, and when he strips out of the Henley and the sweats after helping Jonny clean and re-bandage his shoulder, Jonny realizes that Patrick is wearing a pair of _his_ boxer briefs.

They’re too big, of course. Jonny is wider, and his ass fatter. They sit awkwardly on Patrick, but there’s something about Patrick in Jonny’s underwear, his _clothes_ , half-naked. He’s never seen Patrick in anything but suits, and the occasional civilian clothes.

His cock twitches.

Patrick looks unashamed.

He’s not as thick as Jonny, muscle wise, but he’s not a skinny stick, either. He’s pale, but his shoulders are wide, chest lean. If the boxers were tighter, they’d show off the perfect curve of his ass.

There’s a scar across his right clavicle.

“You like what you see?” he teases.

“Yes,” Jonny replies, honest.

Patrick flushes. The color travels over his clavicles and down his chest.

“Come here,” pleads Jonny, from the bed where he’s been scrolling through emails on his phone.

Patrick crawls up the end of the bed. He slots one knee between Jonny’s legs, hovering over him. Jonny tilts his head up, Patrick meeting him halfway.

It’s easy to kiss Patrick. He’s pliant for Jonny, parting his lips, letting Jonny’s tongue in. He moans into Jonny’s mouth, when Jonny’s licks his gums, pulling back to nibble on Patrick’s bottom lip.

Patrick grins at him, ducking his head, shifting his weight down, careful to avoid Jonny’s shoulder as he kisses down Jonny’s neck, making Jonny gasp as he slides his hand down Patrick’s back to cup his ass through his boxers. Patrick _giggles_ , biting Jonny’s chest, and down to his belly button. He pauses above the edge of Jonny’s boxers.

Jonny’s half hard in his boxers.

Patrick scoots back, looks up at Jonny through his eyelashes, and then kisses his dick through the fabric.

“Fucking tease,” mutters Jonny.

Patrick smirks, mouthing at his dick.

“Fuck,” moans Jonny, and then, “Patrick, you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” murmurs Patrick. He shifts forward to kiss Jonny. “I’ve been wanting to suck your dick since that first day in your office. You don’t know hot you are, when you’re in your suit, threatening to kill someone.”

“That’s what gets you hot, eh?” says Jonny. “Me threatening to have you killed?”

“If you didn’t have a glass fucking office, I would have sucked your dick under your desk the first day.”

Jonny groans. Damn his stupid fucking office.

Patrick grins, sleazy.

He scoots back until he’s comfortable, pulling down Jonny’s boxers with delicate fingers under the waistband. Jonny kicks off his boxers, careful not to kick Patrick, and then it’s just Jonny naked, nothing but Jonny’s own briefs loose on Patrick’s hips between them. “There’s condoms, in the nightstand, if uh, if you want,” says Jonny.

Patrick shakes his head. “Just tell me when you’re gonna come, yeah?” and then he sucks the head of Jonny’s cock into his mouth. Jonny loses all coherent thought.

Patrick wraps a hand around the base of Jonny’s cock, flicking his tongue at the slit, looking at Jonny through his eyelashes.

“Fuck,” mutters Jonny.

Patrick laughs against Jonny’s cock. The vibrations make Jonny’s toes curls. Patrick lowers his mouth further down Jonny’s dick, until his lips hit his curved fingers, and then he pulls off slowly, tongue back at the slit. He does it over and over again, faster as he gets used to the feel of Jonny’s cock in his mouth. It feels good—it really does, because Patrick’s mouth is wet and warm, and sometimes he goes too far, choking softly on the head. That’s good too, but it’s not enough to make Jonny come.

Patrick pulls off, spit trailing after his lips, because the asshole must be fucking psychic. “Not enough, eh?” He doesn’t look mad about it, just curious and sort of amused. “Hand me a pillow.”

“What?”

“A pillow,” repeats Patrick. “Hand me one.” And then he crawls off the bed onto the floor next to the bed.

“Patrick—”

“I like being on my knees. Hand me a pillow.”

Jonny finally hands Patrick a pillow. It’s one of the softest pillows on the bed, besides the one Jonny sleeps with.

Patrick stuffs the pillow under his knees comfortingly, before he reaches over and slaps Jonny’s thigh, playfully. “Come here.”

Jonny gingerly turns himself towards Patrick. He’s careful not to jostle his shoulder too much, or to hit Patrick with his knees as he arranges himself into a sitting position, Patrick between his spread legs.

“I like it better like this,” explains Patrick. “Makes it easier on my throat.”

“On your throat?” repeats Jonny, letting Patrick take his hand and place it in his unruly curls.

“Yeah, for when you fuck it.”

Jonny involuntarily groans. Patrick grins, kisses the head of Jonny’s cock, sliding his lips all the way down to Jonny’s pelvis. Jonny’s mind short-circuits.

His mind only starts to get its shit together when Patrick begins to choke on his dick, pulling back so only the head rests in his mouth, spit and precome dribbling down his chin. Jonny’s fucked his fair share of mouths before, but no one’s ever looked as hot as Patrick does, choking on his dick.

Jonny digs his fingers into Patrick’s hair, gentle, but firm, guiding him back down, so Patrick’s nose is buried in his pubes. Patrick closes his eyes, sighing, body lax, as he lets Jonny pull him back. “Hit me if if you don’t like this,” says Jonny, holding Patrick’s head still to fuck into his mouth.

Patrick moans, precome and spit escaping his mouth, making everything so much wetter, but he keeps his lips tight on Jonny’s dick, teeth tucked away.

He blinks his eyes open, looking right at Jonny. Jonny has to drag him away quickly before he comes down the back of Patrick’s throat. Patrick groans, which means Jonny must have pulled too hard on his hair, but he doesn’t have time to apologize, because he has his hand around his dick, giving it two quick tugs, before he’s coming all over his fist.

“Fuck,” he mutters, when the good, light-headed feeling of his orgasm starts to wave.

Patrick laughs, kissing Jonny’s knee. His lips are swollen, and he uses Jonny’s discarded shirt to wipe the spit from his chin. Jonny takes the shirt from him, wiping his own hand, before he cups Patrick’s chin and kisses him.

Patrick grins into the kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are so dilated they’re nearly black. “Come here,” says Jonny, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder to help Patrick stand. There’s a wet spot in Patrick’s underwear, but his dick is still hard, and he groans when Jonny cups him.

Patrick makes the sweetest noise when Jonny pulls his underwear down to his knees and wraps a hand around his dick. Patrick isn’t as thick as Jonny, but he’s longer, cut, flushed pink with arousal. The pink covers his clavicles and his cheeks, his ears, down his chest. He’s lovely, Jonny thinks.

“Too dry,” Patrick breathes, after a minute or two. Jonny pulls his hand back, leaning forward to wrap his lips around Patrick’s cock. Patrick groans, putting a hand on Jonny’s shoulder, rocking his hips minutely. Jonny pulls off, kisses Patrick’s hip, right where there’s the tiniest of birthmarks, and resumes the handjob.

“Jonny,” breathes Patrick, hips moving with Jonny’s hand, lids lowered. Jonny will have to wipe his hand again, but it doesn’t matter. Patrick’s mouth parts beautifully, his baby blues getting wide. He doesn’t have a disgusting orgasm face, unfairly. He groans, coming all over Jonny’s hand, fucking his hand until he’s too sensitive.

Jonny wipes his hand again.

Patrick takes the pillow from the floor, throws it on the bed, and then climbs into bed, just like that.

Jonny climbs in after him, staying on his side of the bed. Patrick makes a frustrated noise. “You’re probably the biggest cuddler in the world, come here.”

“Am not,” mutters Jonny, scooting closer, so he can throw an arm over Patrick’s hip and force him to be the little spoon. Patrick turns his head over his shoulder, kissing the corner of Jonny’s mouth. Jonny sighs happily.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They spend three days cuddling, watching movies, and swapping sloppy blowjobs until Jonny gets stir crazy.

Abby will kill him if he returns to work earlier than she said, even by two days, and Hoss and Sharpy want to keep him out of the office, until they slowly find out who the other rats are. According to them, Mark is still unaware that they’re on to him, but they want Jonny away, at least for the rest of the week.

Jonny only wants to go to the grocery store. They don’t need anything, because the pantry and fridge are always kept well-stocked by a mysterious, unknown, force—his housekeeper, probably—but he’s bored, and Patrick keeps complaining about his kale chips.

Trevor is summoned, like always. When Jonny steps out of the elevator into the garage, he’s met with a black monstrosity, known to most as a Hummer.

“Trevor,” he says. “What the _fuck_ ,” as Patrick says, “Oh wow, this is awesome!”

“Sorry,” says Trevor, as he struggles to climb out of the car and get the door. “We couldn’t uh, get the blood off the seats in the other car. And there’s a big drug move today, so all the other cars are being used.”

“Why the fuck do we even _have_ a Hummer?” snaps Jonny.

Trevor shrugs, getting the door for Patrick, who looks enthralled by the ugly car.

“I don’t want to go to the grocery store anymore,” says Jonny, watching as Patrick literally has to _hop_ into the backseat. “We’re going to the dealership. _Now_.”

“Yes sir,” says Trevor.

“I don’t know why you don’t like this car,” says Patrick. “It’s _sick_.”

“Trevor, I want this car taken to the dump as soon as we’re finished with it.”

Patrick rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Really?” he says, twenty minutes later, when they pull into the BMW dealership. “You _have_ to get a brand new car?”

“Yes,” snaps Jonny, because he refuses to be seen in the Hummer for any longer than need be.

Jonny always buys his cars from the same dealership, so no one looks very surprised to see him. They’re disgusted by the Hummer, of course, and Jean raises her eyebrow questioningly at Patrick, who’s _still_ wearing Jonny’s clothes. He’s in an older pair of sweats, that fit a bit better, but the shirt is still too big on him. He seems happy in Jonny’s clothes, and Jonny _likes_ Patrick in his clothes. Jonny lets him be.

“A new car already, Toews?” drawls Jean, but she’s already pulling up paperwork, waving her hand dismissively at her own minions.

“There were a few stains,” admits Jonny. Jean raises a beautifully drawn in eyebrow.

“I just want a new car,” says Jonny.

“Yes, of course,” says Jean, all amusement. “Are you interested in the Series 7 again? 740 or 750?”

“750,” replies Jonny, taking the offered coffee an employee hands him. He jerks his head in Patrick’s direction. The employee runs off to get Patrick his own cup. “I want the same exact car as the last one I bought. Same modifications, too. But I’ll take whatever you have for now.”

Patrick takes the offered cup, giving Jonny a weary look. “You’re getting _two_ cars?”

“I can’t be seen in the Hummer,” says Jonny.

Patrick snorts, rolling his eyes, before he wanders off to go look at the other cars. It takes ten minutes for Jean to get the paperwork together, and even less for Jonny to sign it.

The car Jean cooks up for him is all white, but the interior is black, and it’s the most basic of models. No tablets, no sun roof. Just a plain, white, BMW. Trevor takes the car around back to change the plates out to ones that won’t show up in any system.

While Trevor changes the plates, Jonny wanders off to find Patrick.

Patrick’s out on the lot, looking at used cars. He’s got his eye on a black sedan, an older model from 2010, maybe 2009, from the looks of it. “You like it?” asks Jonny.

“It’s okay,” says Patrick, but Jonny can see the way he's looking at the car.

Jonny looks at the car. It’s not scratched, but it’s probably got some miles on it, if it’s $10,000 price tag is anything to go by. “You thinking about buying it?”

Patrick snorts, giving Jonny an incredulous look.

“Do you want it?” asks Jonny.

“What?” says Patrick, as Jonny gestures for a dealer. “Jonny, _no_.”

Jonny ignores him to address the dealer. “How many miles?” he asks, as Patrick hisses, “ _Jonny_.”

“70,000,” sir, replies the dealer. “She’s in good shape. She’s old, but it’s the miles making her price so low.”

Jonny nods, looking at Patrick. “This is the car you want?”

“ _No_ ,” hisses Patrick. “You are _not_ buying me a car.”

“Give us a moment,” says Jonny, dismissing the dealer easily. “You want this car.”

“Just because I _want_ it, doesn’t mean you’re going to buy it for me. That’s _insane_.”

“I bought you suits,” argues Jonny.

Patrick gapes, shaking his head. “Suits are—that’s _different_. You—You wouldn’t shut up about how I looked like I’d just crawled out of a trash can.”

“You did,” says Jonny, quietly.

“Fuck you,” sneers Patrick. “And not the point. You’re not buying me a car.”

“ _I_ want to buy you a car,” insists Jonny. “Now, is this the one you want? Or do you want to look at a newer model with less mileage?”

“Jonny,” sighs Patrick, still thrumming with angry energy, but he seems understand that he’s not going to win this argument, or any argument, when Jonny wants to buy him things.

“I have more money than I know what to do with,” says Jonny, gesturing for the dealer again.

“I don’t want—I’m not going to use you for your money. I want,” swallows Patrick. “You don’t have to do these things, Jonny.”

“But _I_ want to,” says Jonny. He wants to kiss Patrick, but he doesn’t know if Patrick will be fine with affection in front of people, away from the penthouse that he’s made his home for five days straight now, not to Jonny’s annoyance, surprisingly, which is something Jonny’s going to have to think long and hard about, never.

“Have you decided on a car, sir?” asks the dealer.

Patrick has his eyes set on the used car. Jonny tries not to be a materialistic asshole, but his—his _whatever_ Patrick is to him, is not going to be driving around in a used BMW, not when he can be in a brand new model.

“We want to look at the new models.”

“ _Jonny_.”

The dealer looks at Patrick skeptically.

“Can you get Jean for us?” says Jonny, in his best _I am rich, I am powerful, and I will end you_ voice. The dealer scurries off to get Jean.

“Oh my god,” says Patrick.

Patrick seems completely uncomfortable with the whole process of Jonny buying him a car, probably amplified by the looks some of the dealers, and other customers, give him. Patrick is far from dressed in any clothes that say he can drop a hundred grand on a new car just like that, but he’s with Jonny, who _is_ , and _will_.

“They think I’m your _sugar baby_ ,” whispers Patrick, as Jonny hands over his credit card to pay for Patrick’s brand new, 328d—all black, with as many tweaks and perks as they could fit.

“And that’s a bad thing, because?” Jonny asks, as he signs his name, delicately covering up the final cost, so Patrick doesn’t have an aneurysm.

“I’m _not_ your sugar baby,” hisses Patrick.

Jean raises an eyebrow where Patrick can’t see.

Jonny ignores him to take the keys Jean hands over. Patrick follows after him, as Jonny makes his way to the back of the dealership, where Trevor is screwing on the same, fake license plates as Jonny’s own car, to Patrick’s.

“I’m _not_ your sugar baby,” repeats Patrick.

“Most kids your age would love to have a sugar daddy,” says Jonny.

Patrick sneers. “Is that why you kissed me? Because you wanted a fucking sugar baby?”

Trevor is smart enough to takes his sweet time screwing the plates on.

“No,” says Jonny, wishing he had a cigarette, or a really strong drink. “I kissed you because you’re a cocky little shit, and I like you.”

“And you’re buying me a car worth a hundred grand because you _like_ me?”

“It’s only fifty,” says Jonny.

Patrick shakes his head in disbelief. Jonny says, “I’m buying you things because I want to. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to stop me. Just be grateful that I’m not a sleazy old man.”

“But you _are_ old,” mutters Patrick, but there’s not much fire in it. Jonny doesn’t miss the way that Patrick marvels at his brand new car.

“It’s all good to go, sir,” says Trevor, finally.

Jonny holds the key out of Patrick’s reach, only because he enjoys the height difference between them. Patrick scowls, pulling a dirty move, tapping Jonny gently on his injured shoulder, but it’s enough to make Jonny double in pain, and for Patrick to swipe the keys from his hand.

“Fucking asshole,” says Jonny, as Trevor and Patrick high-five.

Patrick kisses the corner of Jonny’s mouth when he straightens. It’s the only affection they’ve shown outside the safety of the penthouse. “Thank you.”

“I should take it back,” jokes Jonny. Patrick gives him a worried look, like he thinks Jonny even capable of being so cruel, of holding the things Jonny buys for him over his head.

“I would never do that to you,” he says, right into Patrick’s ear, too quiet for Trevor to hear. “It’s yours.”

Patrick tilts his head. “I wouldn’t let you.”

And that’s why Jonny’s enthralled, he thinks, because Patrick is a cocky little shit that doesn’t respond well to authority, and will not bend to Jonny’s will, no matter how hard Jonny pushes.

Patrick grins, before he pulls away from Jonny to drag a hand over his new car as he walks around the hood to the driver’s seat. “I’m going to take it for a spin.”

“You’re not getting a new one if you wreck it,” says Jonny, long-suffering.

Patrick pouts. Jonny suspects that he already knows that he’ll get a new car, even if he wrecks this one, only because Jonny is willing to indulge him.

Jonny rolls his eyes, but steps around the hood to stand in the doorway when Patrick gets in. The interior is as sleek as Jonny was hoping. Patrick turns the key and listens to the car purr.

Patrick smiles, adjusts the seat, and fumbles with the radio until he gets to a station playing horrible pop music. He looks pleased, and happy, which is all Jonny wanted, really.

“I’ll see you at home, yeah?” says Patrick, easy. The word _home_ flows off his tongue like it belongs there.

“Yeah,” agrees Jonny, leaning forward to kiss Patrick, before he pulls back to shut the door. He steps out of the way for Patrick to drive away and into traffic. He’s relieved to see the black SUV pull out of it’s hiding spot and follow, although a sense of dread crawls its way into his bones. Anyone can be a rat, and he’s trusting two lackeys he wouldn’t know the names of otherwise to keep Patrick safe.

“Sir?” says Trevor, pulling Jonny from his thoughts.

“I’ll drive myself home,” says Jonny. “Get rid of that ridiculous Hummer.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” chides Trevor.

Jonny looks at him, incredulous. Trevor says, “Can I at least run some errands before I have to take it to the dump?”

Jonny shakes his head. “I don’t really care what you do with it, Trevor, just as long as you get rid of it.”

Trevor does a fist bump. Jonny gets into his car with another shake of his head, rolling his eyes.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny forgets all about the original point of leaving the house that day, and doesn’t remember until he’s halfway home. He could just make Patrick suffer through more kale chips, but he’s sure he’ll never hear the end of it, and doubles back to the nearest grocery store. He doesn’t know what flavors Patrick likes, and his shoulder starts to twinge painfully, so he just shoves a few bags from different brands with different flavors into a cart and gets the hell out of dodge.

He doesn’t know what take the car for a spin means to Patrick, but Jonny doesn’t expect him back any time soon. Jeff and Tim have strict instructions to text him if anything seems suspicious, so Jonny leaves his cell phone in hearing range, and heads to his study. Just because Abby has banned him from the actual office, doesn’t mean that Jonny can’t work from home, even if his work from home consists of replying to stupid emails Sharpy sends him.

Jonny works until Stanley comes to annoy him. She jumps onto his desk and lies across the keyboard, refusing to be moved, not until Jonny scoops her up one handed and heads to the kitchen.

There’s a kitten underfoot, of course, because they’ve managed to figure out how to climb out of their playpen. She and her mother meow at Jonny repeatedly, until he feeds them a treat each, which causes the other three kittens to come out of the woodwork.

That’s how Patrick finds him: on the kitchen floor, feeding kittens and mother alike treats.

“They’ll never eat their dinner now,” he says, one-dimpled, a yellow duffel slung over his shoulder.

“They’ll eat their dinner if I tell them to,” mumbles Jonny.

Patrick huffs, offering Jonny a hand to help him off the floor. His duffel bag looks full and heavy. He shrugs when Jonny looks at it. “I was tired of wearing your underwear.”

The bag looks too heavy for just two more days of babysitting, which means that Patrick has plans to stick around longer. Jonny smiles. Patrick blushes, elbowing him out the way.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They’re in the middle of _Pacific Rim_ —Jonny likes the film better than _The Winter Soldier_ , although he does understand Patrick’s love for Bucky Barnes, but _Raleigh Becket_ —when Jonny’s cell phone rings.

It’s not unusual for Jonny’s phone to ring after hours, especially when he’s been forced out of the office like this. Sometimes Jonny doesn’t answer, and whoever is calling gets the message and finds someone else to deal with the problem.

He ignores the call. Patrick has his head in his lap, and it’s too much trouble to move them both.

The phone stops. Immediately it begins again.

Patrick sits up, to Jonny’s dismay, raising an eyebrow at him until Jonny gets off the couch and grabs the phone from where it’s been charging.

The call ends before Jonny can pick up, but it starts again, right away. The caller ID says _Seabs_.

“What?” says Jonny.

“Thank fuck,” grunts Seabs, and then he snaps, “Don’t you ever fucking answer your phone?!”

Jonny tries to answer, but Seabs isn’t paying any attention to him. He’s talking to someone else rapidly. “He’s alive,” Seabs tells someone, who sounds like Duncs. “Doesn’t fucking sound hurt.”

“What’s going on?” demands Jonny.

From the couch, Patrick sits up. Jonny tries to smile reassurance before he dismisses himself from the room.

“Seabrook,” snaps Jonny, voice authoritative. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Chicago PD found the Hummer all shot up,” replies Seabs, voice calm, like he’s telling Jonny the weather.

Jonny feels the color leave his face. “Trevor—”

“The kid’s been shot to hell,” says Seabs, voice gruff. “PD got him off to Mercy. Abby’s on her way there.”

Jonny sags against the wall. He hears the door to the media room open and close, but he doesn’t turn to look at Patrick. “They thought I was in the Hummer.”

Seabs hums his response. “Why did Trevor even have the Hummer?”

“Told him he could run errands with it,” explains Jonny, regretting that decision immediately. Trevor—Trevor is just a _kid_ , no older than Patrick. He’s got two brothers, and a mom and a dad, and a girl he’s head over heels in love with. He’s Jonny’s driver, only because the kid’s too sweet to be anything else. And now, he’s gotten himself shot to hell, and no one comes back from hell.

“Jonny,” says Seabs. “Where’s Kane?”

The question takes Jonny by surprise. “Why does it matter?”

“He _is_ with you,” deducts Seabs, something like accusation in his voice.

“Seabrook.”

“How did Getzlaf’s men know you used the Hummer today?”

The question hits Jonny like a ton of bricks. “What?”

Seabs doesn’t answer.

“You think he alerted Getzlaf’s men.”

“Jonny?” comes Patrick’s quiet voice from behind him.

Seabs sighs. “We still don’t know what he was doing in the warehouse.”

Jonny squeezes his eyes shut. He’d forgotten that, ignored it, maybe. But he doesn’t think—Patrick can’t be capable of that.

“The Hummer isn’t your usual car. Only you, Trevor, the lackeys trailing Kane, and Kane knew you were using it.”

“I’m going to get to the bottom of that,” Jonny announces. He already knows that Seabs doesn’t agree. “I want the best doctors working on Trevor.”

“Watch your back,” Seabs advices, hanging up.

Jonny remains leaning against the wall. He squeezes his eyes close, trying to just think.

“Jonny?” Patrick asks again.

Jonny turns to look at Patrick. Patrick looks small, eyes wide with concern. “What’s going on?”

“What were you doing in the warehouse?”

Patrick’s brows come together in confusion. “What?”

“The warehouse,” Jonny repeats. “The day you were caught. What were you doing in the warehouse?”

Patrick shakes his head. “What’s wrong? What happened to Trevor?”

“Answer my question,” Jonny demands. “What were you doing in the warehouse?”

“Tell me what happened to Trevor.”

Fuck Patrick’s stubbornness. “Getzlaf’s men shot up the Hummer thinking I was in it.”

“Oh my god,” says Patrick, eyes wide, tears at the corner of his eyes already.

“The Hummer isn’t my usual car,” continues Jonny. “Only four people knew I used that car today. One is in the hospital fighting for his life, two have sworn their undying loyalty to me, and then there’s you. You, who was snooping around my warehouse, and now, a few weeks later, people are trying to kill me.”

Patrick stares, eyes searching Jonny’s face. “You think I’m a rat.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know what to think,” admits Jonny. “Why were you in my warehouse?”

Patrick’s mouth sets in a hard line. He shakes his head at Jonny. “Do you really believe I would do that to you?”

Jonny doesn’t want to believe, but he’s let Patrick slip through the cracks, crawl his way under his skin and plant himself there. “What were you doing in there?”

“I was looking for cats, you asshole,” spits Patrick.

“ _Cats_?”

“I fed the cats in the alley because no one else would. I used to catch them, get them spayed and neutered. There was a mean old black cat. I couldn’t catch her for shit, but one day, she ran into an open door, and I followed. Next thing I know, Boller’s trying to take me down with some other shit head, and I’m being tied to a chair.” Patrick swallows audibly. “And then you came waltzing on down. And I couldn’t tell the fucking head of the Chicago mob that I was looking for fucking cats, but that didn’t matter, because you didn’t seem to care.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Jonny,” pleads Patrick, shaking his head. “Jonny I wouldn’t. I don’t know Getzlaf. I don’t know anything. I didn’t _tell_ anyone anything. I wouldn’t—” Patrick looks close to tears, sounds it too. “Why would I let them know you had the Hummer, even though I knew you brought a new car and wouldn’t be in the Hummer anymore? It doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t do that to _Trevor_.”

Patrick looks so broken. Jonny knows that Patrick adores Trevor—treats Trevor like Trevor is a friend instead of a driver. He knows that Patrick would never set him up to be slaughtered like that. He _knows_ Patrick can’t be on Getzlaf’s side. Trying to catch a cat so he can spay her is such a _Patrick_ thing to do.

Jonny steps forward. He wipes away the tears under Patrick’s eyes with his thumbs. “I believe you.”

Patrick holds Jonny’s wrists. “Is Trevor going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Jonny whispers.

Patrick pulls away to rub tiredly at his eyes. “Everyone thinks I’m a rat now, don’t they?”

Jonny nods. There’s no point in lying to Patrick. “You’re the only link they have.”

Patrick shakes his head at the ceiling. “Mark’s the rat.”

“I know,” breathes Jonny. “But where there’s one rat, there’s more.”

“Jeff and Tim?”

Jonny shakes his head. “No, or they would have alerted someone to carry out the hit earlier when they were sure I was in the car. There was a 50/50 chance after the dealership that I would have still been in the car. Whoever ordered the hit took the chance, or had something against Trevor.”

“Who would have anything against Trevor?”

“No one,” says Jonny. “They were after me, and Trevor was in the way.”

“We should go to the hospital,” suggests Patrick. “To visit Trevor.”

Jonny shoots that idea down immediately. He doesn’t have to be told by Seabs to stay put. There are rats crawling all over the place. They have moderate surveillance on him. His new BMW isn’t equipped with bullet proof glass, or a GPS to track his every move. He’s a sitting duck.

 _They’re_ sitting ducks. If the rats new about the Hummer, then they must know about Patrick too—must have seen them at the dealership.

Patrick could have been _killed_ the second he left Jonny’s sight.

“We’ve got to lay low,” Jonny explains, when Patrick looks confused. “Abby and the doctors will take care of Trevor. For now, we stay here, and we don’t go anywhere.”

“ _We_?”

Jonny nods. “All mobs work the same. They find out what you care about the most, and then they rip it away from you.”

Despite the atmosphere, Patrick’s mouth twitches. “You care about me?”

Jonny’s caught off guard. He hadn’t even realized—

“It’s okay,” says Patrick, closing the distance that’s grown between them. “You’re a Canadian mobster. I don’t expect for emotions to come easily to you.”

Despite everything, Jonny snorts a laugh.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick doesn’t sleep well.

Usually he’s out like a brick at Jonny’s side, but he stays wide awake, staring at the TV screen in Jonny’s bedroom. When he does drift off, he startles awake an hour later. Jonny doesn’t pretend not to know what’s come over him.

In the morning, Patrick has bags under his eyes.

Jonny goes into the study, takes the gun hidden in his drawer, and moves it to the drawer in his bedside table.

After that, Patrick takes a nap. It lasts five hours, but if he feels safer, then Jonny will let him sleep.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Sharpy pays them a visit three days later.

Jonny wants to return to his office to show the rats that he’s not afraid, but there are too many people at the office, innocent and rats alike. It's just not safe.

“Trevor’s awake,” Sharpy announces, helpinghimself to some Doritos Jonny’s been snacking on. He looks through the open door of Jonny’s study into the bedroom, where Patrick’s napping. Patrick still has bags under his eyes. He’s taken to not sleeping at night, and napping during the day, ruining his sleep schedule. “He’s not out of the woods yet, but Abby and the Mercy doctors think he’ll recover.”

“You’ve got men posted?”

Sharpy nods, sprawling in one of Jonny’s fancy chairs. “Day and night. No one we don’t trust gets anywhere near him.”

Jonny slumps in his chair. “I want Getzlaf dead.”

Sharpy regards him with amusement. “Don’t we all. But we can’t kill Getzlaf without starting a war we can’t pay for.”

“But Getzlaf can kill me?”

“That’s the thing,” drawls Sharpy. “I don’t think Getzlaf has anything to do with this.”

Jonny sets his dead stare on Sharpy.

“I know you hate it when we move without you,” says Sharpy. “But we made a unanimous decision to deal with our rat problem.”

Jonny rubs at an eye, tiredly. He can’t say that he’s surprised.

“Mark cracked under pressure immediately,” continues Sharpy, with a little smile that says Mark at least suffered some injury. “It’s not Getzlaf he’s working for. It’s our good ole friend, Kesler.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow. “Kesler’s going behind Getzlaf’s back to try and kill me?”

“Whatever you did to Kesler all those years ago is causing him to risk his life to kill you.”

Honestly, Jonny thinks. It wasn’t even _that_ bad. He shakes his head. “Did Mark tell you who the other rats are?”

“No,” sighs Sharpy. “But he at least ruled out lover boy.”

Jonny glances to the bedroom. Patrick is still sound asleep.

“He knew the minute he fucked up. Didn’t even seem surprised to see us when Duncs and I paid him a visit. The second the words came out of his mouth, and he saw Kaner standing there, he knew his cover was blown. We had to track him all the way to Madison.”

“Kaner?” repeats Jonny.

Sharpy grins. “Everyone’s got a nickname, Tazer. It’s tradition.”

“Only three days ago Seabs was accusing him of big a rat.”

“Yes, well, Seabs doesn’t know shit.”

Jonny snorts. Patrick stirs on the bed, but stays quiet.

“What are we going to do, Sharpy?”

“ _You_ are going to stay here.” Sharpy glances at the bedroom door. “The _both_ of you.”

“I’ll go stir crazy,” argues Jonny.

“Your penthouse is fourteen thousand square feet,” says Sharpy, with an eye roll. “You’ll find something to keep you two busy.” He leers. Jonny glares. “The rest of us will get rid of the rat’s nest.”

“You can kill as many rats as you want, but Kesler’s not going to stop.”

Sharpy waves a hand dismissively. “Kesler was included in that rat’s nest.”

“You’ll start a _war_ , Sharpy.”

“Well, you’re not going to like this either,” begins Sharpy, sketchy as all hell. “But we talked to Getzlaf.”

“ _What the fuck_ ,” hisses Jonny, loud enough to stir Patrick again. Jonny doesn’t want to wake him, so he creeps to the door and shuts it softly. “Why did you talk to Getzlaf?”

“To avoid a war,” drawls Sharpy. “If we had hunted Kesler down to Anaheim and shot him dead, we would have ignited a war. Getzlaf wouldn’t have asked questions. But just like you, Getzlaf doesn’t appreciate the men he trusts working against him.”

“So you tattled on Kesler to Getzlaf.”

“It sounds childish when you put it like that,” says Sharpy. “But yes. We did. We can’t _kill_ Kesler, but we can send him back to Anaheim where Getzlaf and Perry will take care of him.”

“Kesler’s in Chicago?”

Sharpy nods solemnly. “We’re assuming he is. Told Getzlaf he had business to attend to back in Vancouver. Getzlaf let him go, and didn’t think twice about it, but he made some phone calls. No one’s seen Kesler in Vancouver.”

“And how do we know that Getzlaf isn’t double crossing us?”

“Getzlaf’s tired, Jonny,” says Sharpy. “He doesn’t want to keep fighting an enemy he didn’t really want to fight in the first place. When we find Kesler, Getzlaf doesn’t care what we do with him, as long as we send him back in one piece, and _alive_.”

Getzlaf takes the fun out of everything, thinks Jonny, trying not to pout. He would _gladly_ send Kesler back to Anaheim in a million different pieces, but Sharpy made a deal with Getzlaf, and Kesler has to go back in one piece, _alive_ , unfortunately.

“Do you have any clue where Kesler could be?”

Sharpy sighs, overdramatic. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here. Mark probably alerted him that we were on his tail, and he went further into hiding. We’ll find him. We always do.”

They talk more about the goings on of the office, before Sharpy decides to head out. Jonny walks him to the elevator, but not before Sharpy promises to come back with more guns and ammunition, as a precaution.

“When it’s safe enough,” says Jonny. “I want Patrick taken to the gun range.”

Sharpy raises an eyebrow before stepping into the elevator. “He sticking around?”

“Yes,” says Jonny, and doesn’t even think about it.

The elevator doors shut on Sharpy’s smile.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny’s new BMW is finished by the end of the second week of their isolation.

Boller is the one who drops it off. He comes up through the elevator, duffel full of guns and ammunition slung over one shoulder, a cat carrier in hand.

Jonny is itchy and irritated from being cooped up for too long. Sharpy still hasn’t gotten any leads on Kesler, which makes Jonny not only antsy, but irritated beyond hell. Fucking Kesler has him trapped like an animal, and Jonny wants _out_.

“Got your stuff,” says Boller, giving Stanley a good scratch between the ears. “You’re coming with me, pretty lady.”

“Where are you taking her?” asks Patrick, sounding panicky. He snatches Stanley up, like he’s afraid Boller might kidnap her.

“She has a vet appointment to get spayed,” explains Boller, setting the carrier down carefully on the living room floor. He sets the duffel down, nodding at Jonny.

“Oh,” says Patrick, and reluctantly lets Stanley go. “The kittens too?”

Boller shakes his head. “One more week, I think.”

Patrick is the one who puts Stanley in the carrier. He bumps the duffel with his foot on accident. “You’re taking her to the same vet, right? Dr. Howe?”

Boller smiles amusedly. “Yes, Dr. Howe. You made the appointment a few weeks ago. I’ll bring her back in an hour tops.” Boller looks at Jonny. “The new car’s ready.”

The car is Jonny’s escape. Armored, bullet proof, nearly indestructible—shooting Jonny through it will be impossible. “I’ll take Stanley to the vet.”

Boller’s eyes bulge, before he grunts a laugh. “No can do, boss.”

“ _Boller_ ,” snaps Jonny.

“Seabs says you have to stay _here_ ,” argues Boller.

“Seabs isn’t in charge of this organization.”

Boller looks torn between following Jonny’s order, and following the order Seabs gave him. It’s an unfair place for Jonny to put him, but Jonny wants _out_.

“Jonny,” says Patrick, a hand on Jonny’s injured shoulder, gentle. “Please, stay here, with _me_.” He says ‘me’ gently, and gives Jonny the softest of looks.

Jonny feels the itchiness leave, the irritation drain from his body. Instead of taking a fucking cat to the vet to get spayed, he can stay here, with Patrick. He’s been here with Patrick, just the two of them, for nearly two weeks, but Patrick looks at him so soft, eyes hooded suggestively, that Jonny sighs and relents. “Take the fucking cat to the vet, Boller.”

Boller grins sleazily, taking the carrier, getting the hell out of dodge before Jonny changes his mind.

When Boller is gone, Patrick worms his way between Jonny’s space. “They’re keeping you here, for a reason, you fucking idiot.”

“I’m the most powerful fucking man in all of Chicago,” grits Jonny. “And Kesler has me locked away in my fucking house, like a scared fucking mouse.”

Patrick smooths the skin under Jonny’s eyes with his thumbs. “They’ll find Kesler, and then you can go back to moping around your stupid glass office, looking hot in your suit.” He kisses Jonny.

Jonny sighs into the kiss, pushing Patrick until his knees hit the back of the couch. He gets lost in Patrick’s everything and forgets about his itch.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny moves the duffel into his closet.

He doesn’t want to frighten Patrick. The guns are just a precaution, just in case things go left—just in case there are more rats than they thought possible.

He underestimates Patrick, of course.

Patrick shoves a .22 caliber pistol in his face as Jonny’s flipping through the newspaper. “I want you to teach me how to use this.”

Jonny looks at the pistol, and then up Patrick’s extended arm. He’s holding the pistol all wrong—one handed, finger shaking on the trigger.

“Put the gun down,” demands Jonny, voice steady, calm. This isn’t the first time he’s had a gun shoved in his face by a person who doesn’t know what they’re doing.

“Are you going to teach me how to use it?” asks Patrick, voice demanding.

“I will, if you put the fucking thing down.”

Patrick looks down at him. He swallows audibly, setting the gun down on the island. Jonny immediately picks the gun back up. He checks the magazine, finding it empty. “First rule to a gun,” he says, as he puts the magazine back. “Is never point a gun at something you’re not willing to destroy.”

Patrick smiles a weak apology.

“Secondly,” says Jonny. “We’re on house arrest. I can’t teach you how to shoot in here.”

“But you’re the boss,” says Patrick.

“Oh,” purrs Jonny. “ _Now_ you want me to leave the house.”

“Boller didn’t bring you all these guns for nothing,” says Patrick, ignoring Jonny’s comment. “You have a feeling something bad is going to happen. I don’t want to rely on you to protect me.”

Jonny doesn’t answer. Patrick says, “When we went to the dealership, you couldn’t take the car you really wanted off the lot. They had the exact car you wanted, sitting right there in the show room, but you couldn’t take that one. You have things done to your personal cars, don’t you? Armor? Bulletproof glass? That’s why you wanted to take Stanley to the vet, because you knew no one could get you while you were in your car.”

Patrick is far too damn brilliant for his own good, but that’s what Jonny likes about him. Patrick cannot be fooled. He takes notes of the little things, and doesn’t let them go.

“The mob has to have it’s own firing range, right?” he continues.

They do. A private range just on the outskirts of the city. No one uses it without the mob’s explicit permission.

“I want to learn how to shoot, Jonny.”

Jonny leans back on his stool and looks at Patrick. Patrick’s eyes are on fire. He’s determined. He’ll learn how to shoot, with or without Jonny. He’s a feisty little thing. Jonny feels a bit in love. “Get my phone.”

Patrick grins.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Since Trevor is laid up in hospital, Boller gets the job of chauffeuring them from the safety of the penthouse, to the shooting range. Shawsy just comes along for the ride.

Jonny turns off his phone, so he doesn’t have to hear the sheer ringing of his phone as Seabs loses his shit over Jonny leaving the apartment.

The gun range has been cleared out.

Shawsy surveys the perimeter, before he gives the okay for Jonny to exit the car. The range is eerily quiet as they enter.

“I think I might cry,” says Shawsy, dramatically. “Our baby’s first trip to the shooting range.”

Patrick grins, shoving Shawsy. “Shut up, Mutt.”

Jonny sets Patrick up with ear muffs, and the same model of gun that he shoved into Jonny’s face only an hour earlier. He has Patrick learn the parts of the gun first, and how to hold it properly—two hands, thumbs forward, fingers wrapped, and his finger off the trigger until he’s ready to shoot—before he even lets Patrick load the magazine.

He lets Boller direct Patrick for the actual shooting, since his shoulder won’t be able to handle the movement. Boller’s a brawler, great with his fist, but he’s got an uncanny ability to hit a target dead center whenever he wants.

Patrick has the sloppiness of a new shooter, either hitting outside the paper target completely, or not at all. Jonny expects for him to get bored of it, once he realizes that the backlash from the gun going off isn’t so pleasant, and that it’s not as easy as it seems in all the movies they’ve watched, but Patrick keeps at it.

Shawsy takes to loading a new magazine into a different gun, handing it to Patrick when the first gun’s magazine is empty, only to replace the first gun’s magazine, and hand it back over, as soon as Patrick’s done with the second.

Patrick’s aim slowly gets better. Instead of just firing away, wasting the magazine, he starts to really think about where he’s shooting, taking a moment to think about where he wants the bullet to go before he releases the trigger. It doesn’t take long for him to at least get within the paper dummy’s body, and even shorter for him to get within the 7 range.

The recoil from the gun begins to take its toll, and Patrick’s thumb begins to ache. “I’m done,” he announces, when the last magazine has been emptied. He hits the safety, and hands the gun back to Shawsy.

Boller whistles. “Why have we had you locked away with Captain Serious all this time?”

Jonny scowls. “I thought we agreed to drop that nickname.”

“ _You_ agreed to drop that name,” says Shawsy.

Patrick smiles, kissing the corner of Jonny’s mouth. “He’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, he’s not that bad to you because he wants to _bone_ you,” drawls Shawsy. “I bet you’ve never been at the end of his infamous Tazer Stare.”

“Do I want to know why your nickname is Tazer?” smirks Patrick.

“It’s all in the glare,” explains Boller. “It’s like a laser straight into your soul.” He shudders for good measure. “Laser sounded fucking lame, so we went with Tazer.”

Patrick laughs. Jonny really hates his goons sometimes, but they make Patrick laugh—a sound Jonny hopes to hear for a long time—so he forgives them for every annoying little thing that they do.

“And Captain Serious?” Patrick presses. “Where did that come from.”

“Tazer’s a competitive _jerk_ ,” whines Shawsy. “He sucks out all the fun from games because he gets super serious about them. We can’t even play _hop scotch_ without him being an asshole.”

“You were playing wrong!” argues Jonny.

“Children,” says Boller. “Let’s get you two home before we start arguing about the true merits of _hop scotch_.”

There are three voicemails from Seabs, a missed call from Sharpy, a sad, motherly text from Abby and a very strongly worded letter from Hoss when Jonny finally turns his phone back on. They all say about the same thing: you’re going to get yourself killed leaving your apartment, _asshole_ , and stop letting the kid get you wrapped around his finger. The last part is a moot point, because Jonny is already aware that his self-control and ability to say “no” when it comes to Patrick has been thrown out the window, so he deletes all of the voicemails and texts, and goes on with his life.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Since they managed to go to the gun range and back without someone trying to kill him, Jonny decides to return to work the next day.

Just Jonny, not Patrick.

Patrick throws a complete fit.

“What do you _mean_ I’m not allowed to leave the fucking apartment?!” he yells, loud enough for Stanley to grab a kitten and make a run for it.

“I already told you,” says Jonny, trying not to sound condescending, but fully aware that he does. “It’s not safe for you. You need to stay here.”

“Not _safe_ for _me_ ,” repeats Patrick. “What about _you_? I’m not a fucking mobster with another fucking _mob_ after me.”

Jonny doesn’t correct Patrick that it’s only _Kesler_ who’s after him. There are some things that Patrick doesn’t need to know. Jonny’s already argued this point with Seabs. “I’ll have the best damn security team in the country with me at all times. I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, will not be.”

Patrick picks up a shoe. Jonny thinks he might throw it, so he side steps him quickly, heading to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Patrick quickly follows.

“You can’t keep me in this fucking apartment for forever,” he hisses. “I’m not an animal. You don’t _own_ me.”

Jonny has a headache, which makes him snap. “I do fucking own you!”

Patrick stares, mouth hard. He throws the shoe. It goes nowhere near Jonny’s head, but falls limply at his feet. “ _Fuck you_ ,” Patrick spits, and to Jonny’s relief, stomps off towards the bedroom. Jonny hears the door slam.

It’s like dealing with a fucking spoiled child, he thinks angrily, and doesn’t bother with his coffee. Patrick can stay here, angry and sulky, but he’s not leaving the damn apartment.

Jonny gets to the office— _unscathed_ —and starts to feel like a complete dick.

The one thing Patrick doesn’t want to be is owned. He _told_ Jonny that. He’s not an animal. He’s not an object. He’s not something Jonny can keep locked away from people’s prying eyes.

He’s been staying with Jonny out of his own freewill.

Jonny calls Jeff and Tim in to his office. He has to do it himself, because his secretary is currently at his penthouse, moping angrily.

“I want you to take the car back to the penthouse, and take Patrick to where ever he wants to go.”

Jeff looks skeptical. He looks sideways at Tim.

“Is that safe, sir?” questions Tim. “With your life on the line, I’m sure someone will target Patrick.”

“I’m _aware_ of that,” snaps Jonny, and then feels guilty when the two flinch. “He’s—He hates being locked up in the apartment. He needs to get out. Take him where ever he wants to go. Stick by his side no matter what; never let him out of your sight. You put your lives on the line for him, do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” they say together.

Jonny dismisses them.

He’ll regret this decision; he knows he will. He’ll spend the entire day worrying about Patrick, and not to the chewing out he’ll get from his top men about returning to work, but Patrick isn't an animal, and he can’t keep him caged.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny regrets his decision exactly three hours later.

He’s talking on the phone to Mayor Smith, trying to figure out how to get a new bill about the quality of students’ lunches passed, when the sixth floor starts to buzz.

Hoss and Laddy run past his office. Hoss spares him a glance, face set in stone, before he shoves Laddy into the elevator. “Ben,” Jonny interrupts. “I have to call you back. There’s an emergency.”

“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for you,” says Ben, and hangs up.

Seabs barges into his office as soon as Jonny sets the phone down. “I told you not to let that boy get you wrapped around his finger!”

“ _Brent_ ,” says Duncs, from behind him.

Jonny feels the color drain from him. “What happened?”

“Your car’s been in an accident,” explains Duncs, calmer than his partner.

“ _Accident_?” repeats Jonny.

Duncs nods. “Hit a fire hydrant off Michigan Avenue.”

“Okay?” says Jonny, because that sounds bad, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. As long as Patrick is unharmed—

“Tim’s got a bullet through the side of the head, and Patrick’s missing,” says Seabs.

Jonny’s entire world stops.

“There’s blood all over the backseat,” continues Seabs. Duncs hisses at him to stop, but Seabs knows Jonny too well—Jonny wants all of the details. “PD got called to the scene. They say the back door was wide open, Tim slumped over the wheel. Someone probably shot him as he was driving, and then he crashed the car before someone got Patrick out the back seat. An eyewitness saw the kid putting up a fight before he was dragged into an unmarked car.”

“ _Kesler_ ,” spits Jonny.

Seabs nods.

Jonny feels undying sadness, before he feels a rage so angry he feels like he might explode. He shrugs on his jacket, holstering his gun.

“Where are you going?” asks Duncs.

“Kesler has Patrick. I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“We don’t even know if the kid’s still alive,” argues Seabs. “Or where Kesler even has him."

Jonny picks up his paperweight and throws it a wall. The glass is bulletproof, refusing to shatter. “I want every fucking person we trust out there looking for him.”

“Jonny,” sighs Duncs.

“I’m not going to fucking repeat myself,” spits Jonny.

Duncs and Seabs clear out of his office like bats out of hell.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

It’s a full hour before anything turns up.

They have Kesler to thank for that.

“I’m going to show you a picture,” says Sharpy, entering Jonny’s office where Jonny’s been staring angrily at the dent in the glass from the paper weight. “It’s not a pretty picture. It’s going piss you off, but you can’t act like a shithead when you see it.”

“Just show me the fucking picture, Sharp.”

“This just came in from our friend, Kesler.” Sharpy throws a picture down in front of Jonny.

It’s an 8 x 10 in full color of Patrick’s normally beautiful face, but this—this is Patrick’s beautiful face, marred by nasty bruises. His left eye is completely swollen shut, his cheek up to his brow an angry red. He stares back at Jonny with one, tainted red eye, the skin there not as swollen but just as nasty. His lips are cut. His jaw looks broken.

Jonny looks up at Sharpy, part of his mouth covered by his fingers. “I want Kesler dead. _Now_.”

“Well, good thing for you,” says Sharpy, voice angry, sharp vowels. “Teuvo was able to trace the I.P. address this was sent from. It’s not like Kesler to be this sloppy. He’s trying to lure you out.”

Jonny stands. “I’m going to break every bone in Kesler’s body.”

“I told you not to be a shithead about this.”

Jonny ignores him. They promised to send Kesler back in one piece, but Getzlaf never said anything about those pieces being broken.

 

 

_\- - -_

 

 

The first thing Jonny does when they get to the warehouse that Kesler is hiding out in is shoot Jeff in the back of the head.

“Way to let them know we’re here,” snaps Sharpy.

Jonny mocks a smile. “Kesler’s expecting us anyway.”

Jeff was standing outside the warehouse, smoking. There’s no one else around, but Jonny’s sure that there are more people inside the warehouse waiting. Kesler purposefully put Jeff outside so Jonny would have to announce himself. It doesn’t matter to Jonny.

They enter through a side door after Boller incapacitates a guard by getting him in a chokehold. Hoss and Laddy are entering the building on the other side with Shawsy; Duncs and Seabs are covering the front of the building with Saader; Jonny hates splitting up, but this way, Kesler and his men have to deal with three onslaughts of people, instead of just one.

Jonny uses a silencer to take out two more men. He recognizes them from the warehouse; they have to be stricter about who they hire.

It’s surprisingly easy to kill Kesler’s men, but that’s probably because they’re Kesler’s men—not Getzlaf’s. Kesler doesn’t have Perron, or Despres. Hell, Jonny doesn’t even think Kesler has Bieksa on his side. Kesler is all alone, with no one on his side but a bunch of lackeys.

Kesler’s a fucking idiot.

The one thing on Kesler’s side is that he picked a warehouse full of shit.

There are crates and crates upon fucking crates. It makes a maze, which makes it hard to split up and cover ground, because they might end up shooting each other. The crates also provide adequate places for Kesler to hide.

“This is some shit,” whispers Sharpy.

Boller nods his agreement.

“Kesler has to know we’re here by now,” says Jonny, ignoring the way his shoulder starts to protest. Fucking Kesler. “Our main goal is to find Patrick before he can hurt him any more.”

Jonny’s going to break Kesler’s entire face for what he’s done to Patrick, and for every other part of Patrick he’s hurt. He’ll be so broken that Getzlaf will have no choice but to throw him into the Pacific immediately.

A gun shot rings out from further within the warehouse.

“One of ours, you think?” says Boller.

There’s another series of shots.

“We’ll find out,” says Jonny, moving out from behind a crate.

He follows the sound of guns, careful to stay behind crates for cover. Sharpy and Boller spread out, but stay close.

Jonny turns a corner on a crate.

There, in the center of the warehouse, is Patrick.

He’s tied to a chair, gag stuffed in his mouth, eerily similar to the first time they met. His head is lulled to the side, heavy, like he’s been drugged. He stares out blankly with his one good eye.

Jonny has to dig his feet into the cement not to run to him.

Kesler has Patrick there as a trap.

“Shit,” whispers Sharpy, from a crate nearby.

Patrick moans. The noise shoots through Jonny’s heart. He has to hurt, from what Kesler’s done to him. If his jaw _is_ broken, the large gag must be agony.

“I’m going to get him,” announces Jonny.

“It’s a _trap_ ,” argues Boller.

Jonny knows, he does. But he can’t leave Patrick there any longer.

He steps out from the crate, putting his gun on the ground before he kicks it. It stops at Patrick’s feet. Patrick sobs.

“Kesler!” Jonny yells as he stops forward into the open.

Kesler shoots him in the left shoulder, the fucking _asshole_.

“You fucking fuck!” yells Jonny, clutching his shoulder. Kesler managed almost to get him in the same spot as the last time. He puts pressure on the wound, hoping Kesler hasn’t hit a main artery.

“Nice to see you too,” says Kesler, from the balcony of the second floor.

Patrick sobs. He looks at Jonny, but he isn’t really looking at him.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” says Jonny, thanking all that is holy that Kesler doesn’t shoot him again.

Kesler grins down at him, the cocky shit. “It’s been a long time, Jonny.”

“It’s been a year, dumbass."

Kesler sighs. “Why are you always so snappy with me?”

“Why are you always such a dick?”

Jonny feels it when Sharpy rolls his eyes. Kesler says, “You know why.”

Kesler seriously needs a therapist that will teach him how to let things fucking _go_. “It was an _accident_.”

“You almost killed Burrows!” snaps Kesler.

Jonny’s criminal career had started in Vancouver. He had worked closely with Kesler and Burrows, before he had found something better in Chicago. There had been no bad feelings when he left Vancouver, but the first time he had been forced to deal with Vancouver on the other side, he had shot Burrows right in the gut. It had been _business_.

“ _Almost_ is the key word!” yells Jonny back.

Kesler shoots the ground near Jonny’s feet.

The gun shots have stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonny sees Laddy creeping up the back stairs. Kesler hasn’t noticed him, too intent on Jonny. “What do you want, Kesler?”

“I want you dead,” spits Kesler.

Jonny swallows, keeping his eyes away from Laddy. “You’ve betrayed Getzlaf to get revenge for someone who didn’t even die.”

Kesler flinches. “Burrows—”

“We’ll let you go,” interrupts Jonny, as Laddy creeps even closer. “If we don’t kill you, you know Getzlaf will. And he’ll make you suffer more than we ever would. Let me go, and we’ll let you go.”

Patrick sobs. His one good eye is wet with tears. Jonny wants to go to him, comfort him, but he knows if he moves, Kesler with shoot him, or he’ll shoot Patrick.

“Your men aren’t going to let me go,” says Kesler.

“ _I’ll_ let you go,” says Jonny.

“But you’ll be dead,” says Kesler, aiming his gun right for Jonny’s head.

Laddy gets him in a chokehold right as Kesler pulls the trigger. The bullet grazes the side of Jonny’s head, barely missing the top of his ear. He drops straight to the ground.

Sharpy and Boller race past him. Kesler’s gun falls from the balcony, clanging to the floor, going off and shooting a bullet straight through a crate. Jonny slides over and grabs his gun, aiming it upwards towards the balcony, but Laddy and Boller have Kesler on the floor. “We’ve got him!” yells Sharpy. “Check on Patrick, you fucking idiot!”

 _Patrick_.

Jonny ignores his shoulder. “Patrick,” he says, clambering to his feet. He takes Patrick’s face, gently guiding his head to look at him. He rips the gag from Patrick’s mouth as gently as he can. Patrick coughs, spit and blood coming up.

“Patrick, baby, look at me,” says Jonny. “I’m here now, okay? Patrick?”

“Jonny?” croaks Patrick, the noise barely a whisper.

“I’m here,” Jonny repeats, kissing his forehead. “I’m here. We’re taking you home. I’m going to take you home, and you’re never leaving my sight ever again.”

He unties Patrick as carefully as he can. Patrick slumps forward, passing out.

The rest is a blur.

Jonny remembers putting Patrick in a car—a good car, a car armored and bullet proof and driven by Shawsy, someone he _trusts_ —and then he remembers going back into the warehouse where Hoss and Laddy have tied Kesler to the chair.

“You’re a dick,” says Jonny, and shoots him twice in the shoulder.

Whatever happens after that doesn’t matter.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick is taken straight to Mercy.

Abby needs their MRI machine to check for any brain damage.

There is none. Patrick’s jaw is miraculously not broken, but his right arm is, and his left hand, and so are several ribs, one of which has pierced his lung. Kesler chloroformed him at one point, which is why Patrick was so out of it at the warehouse.

Patrick sleeps for four agonizing days.

Jonny lets another doctor treat his shoulder, because he wants Abby’s skilled hands handling Patrick, and then he pulls up a chair at Patrick’s side once he’s out of surgery for his pierced lung, and holds Patrick’s right, unbroken hand. Patrick has a breathing tube in for the first two days, but Abby takes it out once he begins to breathe on his own, and then it’s just the noise of the heart monitor for two long days.

Jonny barely sleeps. He only leaves Patrick’s side long enough to use the toilet and to take quick, five minute showers. He needs to be at Patrick’s side.

Saader, the kind soul, brings him food.

At one point, Trevor is well enough for his girlfriend, Annie, to wheel him into Patrick’s room. He rubs Jonny’s good shoulder and tells him that everything will be all right.

It’s Seabs who brings Stanley on the third day.

“He likes the cat, yeah?” he says. “Abby says she can’t do any harm.”

Stanley meows sadly as Seabs places her on the bed. She sniffs at Patrick, seeming to know to avoid his chest, because she curls up next to his shoulder. Seabs sets up a litter box for her and some toys, but Stanley adopts the same stance as Jonny. She only leaves Patrick’s side to use the toilet. Jonny isn’t sure who cleans the litter box, but it’s never dirty.

On the night of the fourth day, Patrick makes a noise.

He groans, licks his lips, blinking his good eye open. “Fuck,” is the first thing he says, and then, “Jonny?”

There are tears in his eye. “Jonny,” he says again. Stanley meows.

“Hey, hey,” says Jonny, choky from holding back tears. “Shh, you’re okay. I’m right here.”

Jonny shifts, so he can lean over Patrick, and tenderly push the curls from his face, stroking his head. “I’m right here,” he repeats.

Patrick sobs. “Jeff—he’s a rat, Jonny. He killed Tim.”

“I know,” replies Jonny. “I took care of Jeff. And Kesler. No one will hurt you again.”

Stanley meows.

Patrick begins to fully cry. Jonny strokes his head through it, still refusing to leave his side.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick has to stay in the hospital for another week.

He misses the kittens going off to their new homes, and sulks about it for an hour.

When it’s time for Patrick to leave the hospital, Jonny has Saader pick them up in a Camry. He doesn’t want to cause Patrick any trauma from seeing one of his BMWs. “I’m not going to have violent flashbacks from a _car_ ,” says Patrick. He has Stanley hanging from under his broken arm. She doesn’t seem to mind.

The hospital therapist gave Jonny the names of the top therapists in the city. If Patrick experiences PTSD from his attack, Jonny wants him to have the best help possible. “I wanted to change things up,” he lies.

“Do you want to go to your place, or—” starts Jonny, when Saader pulls away from the curb.

“I want to go _home_ ,” says Patrick.

Jonny takes him home.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick is jumpy and grumpy sometimes, and then at others, he’s the sulky, cocky, brat that Jonny loves.

It takes three weeks of recovery before Patrick agrees to go to a therapist.

He goes through five of them before he settles on a therapist who agrees to let Stanley come to the meetings.

Stanley’s stay at Jonny’s was supposed to be temporary, but Jonny thinks, just like Patrick, that the cat is here to stay. Jonny doesn’t mind. She makes Patrick happy.

“Don’t lie,” says Patrick. “You _love_ her.”

“Do not,” says Jonny, as he scratches her belly and tells her that she’s a pretty little lady. Patrick rolls his eyes.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They decide that Patrick returning to his job as Jonny’s secretary just isn’t a good fit.

Patrick is aware of the mob, but he wants nothing more to do with it, other than to drop by to feed the strays and catch them so that they can be spayed or neutered. He can’t return to his old job, either, seeing as he literally quit on the fly.

“It’s not like you even need to _work_ ,” argues Jonny.

Patrick doesn’t talk to him for two days.

He schedules an immediate appointment with his therapist on Tuesday, and doesn’t talk to Jonny again until Thursday.

“I need a _purpose_ you ass,” he says, Stanley clutched to his chest. “I need to prove that _Kesler_ didn’t take my life from me.”

Jonny doesn’t pretend to understand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Patrick, relaxing his grip on Stanley. “I want to do something with my life.”

“Okay,” says Jonny. “Whatever you want to do.”

Patrick kisses him, sweet.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny makes a phone call to Crosby in Pittsburgh thirty seconds after Patrick announces that he’s going to work with a non-profit organization that goes around Chicago, trapping strays to get them fixed and providing cost-free spaying and neutering to people who can’t afford the operations.

Crosby has ties to the Russian Mafia through his right-hand man Evgeni Malkin. Malkin owes Jonny a favor, and sends him an ex-KGB assassin named Artem Anisimov who has just enough patience to deal with Patrick.

Anisimov brings his family with him.

And also his Russian mistress.

“You brought in _Russians_ to babysit me?” says Patrick, when Jonny introduces him to Anisimov.

“I technically only sent for one,” says Jonny.

Artemi Panarin, the Russian mistress, smiles prettily. Unlike Anisimov, Panarin speaks little to no English.

“Artemi is family too,” explains Anisimov.

Jonny doesn’t even try to make sense of how Anisimov’s wife is okay with him having a mistress.

“I hope that maybe you will be Artemi’s friend?” says Anisimov to Patrick. “Help him with his English?”

“Does he like cats?” asks Patrick, looking at Artemi with a critical eye.

“Cats?” says Artemi, with a blinding smile to match Patrick’s.

Jonny immediately regrets this decision.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny doesn’t know how Anisimov does it, but he manages to not only just babysit Patrick, but Artemi as well.

Sometimes Jonny comes home to find them knocked out in the media room, covered in scratches, as Anisimov reads a book in the corner.

Jonny stops asking questions after the first two weeks.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

As much as Patrick doesn’t _want_ to be Jonny’s sugar baby, he’s very happy to take Jonny’s credit card and go on shopping sprees, mostly for Stanley and the other five cats Patrick somehow tricked him into fostering—and probably adopting, _damn it_ Patrick.

“ _No_ ,” says Jonny, when Patrick comes home with a _sixth_ cat.

Patrick pouts. The cat is old, and fat, and _ugly_ , but Patrick is already in love with her. “Jonny, I named her Puck. She’ll go perfectly with Stanley.”

And Gretzky. And Oiler. And Deke. And Zamboni.

Puck stares at him, or could, if she had any _eyes_.

“She’s old and blind. The other alley cats pick on her.”

“God damn it,” says Jonny, which basically means “yes”.

Patrick smiles, kissing the corner of Jonny’s mouth.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Patrick decides that the BMW Jonny bought him is too flashy.

(Jonny thinks that it’s really because it brings back too many bad memories, but he’s learnt not to argue and just say _yes dear_.)

Instead of trading in the BMW, Jonny just adds it to his collection of cars, and buys Patrick a brand new, fully customized, all black, somehow not as flashy as the BMW, 2016 Audi A7.

“Where we put cats?” asks Artemi.

Jonny buys Patrick a brand new, 2016 Audi Q7, just so Patrick has a car to transport all the damn cats.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Jonny hates the cats.

“Yeah, okay, fucking liar,” says Patrick, when Jonny complains about the cat hair all over his pillow. He doesn’t even know which cat it _belongs_ to. “You fucking love them.”

“Do _not_ ,” argues Jonny, conveniently forgetting about how he converted the third bedroom into a giant cat playroom for all their damn cats.

“You love them, darling,” drawls Patrick, crawling into Jonny’s lap. His arm is finally out of its cast. He still has to go to physical therapy for his hand, but it’s getting better. He’s still seeing his therapist. Sometimes Stanley goes with him, or not at all. Sometimes he brings all six cats.

Jonny pays Dr. Rowlings triple the amount she usually charges for the six-cat kind of days.

“You love our cats,” continues Patrick, hands playing with Jonny’s hair. “Like you love me.”

Patrick’s eyes are wide, pretty baby blues. He’s got his cocky boy smile on, all self-aware confidence. Jonny’s heart thumps.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like I love you.”

Patrick kisses him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you'd like to come make friends, my tumblr is buuckyys! the links below link to the cars and floor plan used in this fic!
> 
> [jonny's, all white, series 750 BMW](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YPz1IVC_U3U/VXiEjK54XTI/AAAAAAAR8iw/HDHVmWwRToU/s1600/M2016-BMW-7-Series-01000.jpg), and [its all white interior](http://automotiverhythms.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/2016_BMW_750i_xDrive_Sedan_17.jpg).
> 
> [patrick's black 328d BMW](http://sterlingbmwcars.com/usite/1164/images/328d-xDrive-Sedan.jpg), and later, [his audi a7](http://static.cargurus.com/images/site/2015/05/19/14/11/2016_audi_a7-pic-777040873108295615-1600x1200.jpeg) and [his audi q7](http://icdn1.digitaltrends.com/image/q7e150038_large-970x647-c.jpg).
> 
> [this is the floor plan to jonny's penthouse](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/00/d9/a3/00d9a328cf658e1ab72346fca5b8fdd9.jpg).


End file.
